y-r 

-i. 


/ 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


"H 


AD  there  ever  before  been    a    honeymoon 
bounded  by  the  precipices  of  the  Acropolis?" 


-  [Page  21.] 


IN  THE 
WILDERNESS 

A  NOVEL 

BY 

ROBERT  HICHENS 

AUTHOR    OF    "THB   GARDEN    OF    ALLAH" 


W/Tfl  A  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR  BY 
GEORGE  W.  HOOD 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
ROBERT  HICHENS 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

PAGE 

HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD 1 

BOOK  II 
ECHO 99 

BOOK  III 
LITTLE  CLOISTERS •        237 

BOOK  IV 
THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 369 


2229131 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

BOOK  I 
HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD 

CHAPTER  I 

AMEDEO  DORINI,  the  hall  porter  of  the  Hotel  Cavour 
in  Milan,  stood  on  the  pavement  before  the  hotel  one 
autumn  afternoon  in  the  year  1894,  waiting  for  the 
omnibus,  which  had  gone  to  the  station,  and  which  was  now 
due  to  return,  bearing  —  Amedeo  hoped  —  a  load  of  generously 
inclined  travelers.  During  the  years  of  his  not  unpleasant 
servitude  Amedeo  had  become  a  student  of  human  nature.  He 
had  learnt  to  judge  shrewdly  and  soundly,  to  sum  up  quickly, 
to  deliver  verdicts  which  were  not  unjust.  And  now,  as  he 
saw  the  omnibus,  with  its  two  fat  brown  horses,  coming  slowly 
along  by  the  cab  rank,  and  turning  into  the  Piazza  that  is 
presided  over  by  Cavour's  statue,  he  prepared  almost  mechan- 
ically to  measure  and  weigh  evidence,  to  criticize  and  come  to 
a  conclusion. 

He  glanced  first  at  the  roof  of  the  omnibus  to  take  stock 
of  the  luggage  pile  there.  There  was  plenty  of  it,  and  a  good 
deal  of  it  was  leather  and  reassuring.  Amedeo  had  a  horror 
of  tin  trunks  —  they  usually  gave  such  small  tips.  Having 
examined  the  luggage  he  sent  a  searching  glance  to  two  rows 
of  heads  which  were  visible  inside  the  vehicle.  The  brawny 
porters  hurried  out,  the  luggage  chute  was  placed  in  position, 
the  omnibus  door  was  opened,  and  the  first  traveler  stepped 
forth. 

A  German  of  the  most  economical  type,  large,  red  and  wary, 
with  a  mouth  like  a  buttoned-up  pocket,  was  followed  by  a 
broad-waisted  wife,  with  dragged  hair  and  a  looped-up  gown. 


2  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Amedeo's  smile  tightened.  A  Frenchman  followed  them,  pale 
and  elaborate,  a  "  one-nighter,"  as  Amedeo  instantly  decided 
in  his  mind.  Such  Frenchmen  are  seldom  extravagant  in 
hotels.  This  gentleman  would  want  a  good  room  for  a  small 
price,  would  be  extremely  critical  about  the  cooking,  and  have 
a  wandering  eye  and  a  short  memory  for  all  servants  in  the 
morning. 

An  elderly  Englishwoman  was  the  fourth  personage  to 
appear.  She  was  badly  dressed  in  black,  wore  a  tam-o'- 
shanter  with  a  huge  black-headed  pin  thrust  through  it,  clung 
to  a  bag,  smiled  with  amiable  patronage  as  she  emerged,  and 
at  once,  without  reason,  began  to  address  Amedeo  and  the 
porters  in  fluent,  incorrect,  and  too  carefully  pronounced 
Italian.  Amedeo  knew  her  —  the  Tabby  who  haunts  Swiss 
and  Italian  hotels,  the  eternal  Tabby  drastically  complete. 

A  gay  Italian  is  gaiety  in  flight,  a  human  lark  with  a  song. 
But  a  gloomy  Italian  is  oppressive  and  almost  terrible.  De- 
spite the  training  of  years  Amedeo's  smile  flickered  and  died 
out.  A  ferocious  expression  surged  up  in  his  dark  eyes  as  he 
turned  rather  bruskly  to  scrutinize  without  hope  the  few 
remaining  clients.  But  suddenly  his  face  cleared  as  he  heard 
a  buoyant  voice  say  in  English: 

"  I'll  get  out  first,  Godfather,  and  give  you  a  hand." 

On  the  last  word,  a  tall  and  lithe  figure  stepped  swiftly,  and 
with  a  sort  of  athletic  certainty,  out  of  the  omnibus,  turned  at 
once  towards  it,  and,  with  a  movement  eloquent  of  affection  and 
almost  tender  reverence,  stretched  forth  an  arm  and  open  hand. 

A  spare  man  of  middle  height,  elderly,  with  thick  gray  hair, 
and  a  clean-shaven,  much-lined  face,  wearing  a  large  loose 
overcoat  and  soft  brown  hat,  took  the  hand  as  he  emerged. 
He  did  not  need  it;  Amedeo  realized  that,  realized  also  that 
he  was  glad  to  take  it,  enjoyed  receiving  this  kind  and  unneces- 
sary help. 

"  And  now  for  Beatrice !  "  he  said. 

And  he  gave  in  his  turn  a  hand  to  a  girl  who  followed  him. 

There  were  still  two  people  in  the  omnibus,  the  elderly  man's 
Italian  valet  and  an  Englishman.  As  the  latter  got  out,  and 
stretched  his  limbs  cramped  with  much  sitting,  he  saw  Amedeo, 
with  genuine  smiles,  escorting  the  two  girls  and  the  elderly  man 
towards  the  glass-roofed  hall,  on  the  left  of  which  was  the  lift. 
The  figure  of  the  girl  who  had  stepped  out  first  was  about  to 
disappear.  As  the  Englishman  looked  she  vanished.  But  he 
had  time  to  realize  that  a  gait,  the  carriage  of  a  head  and  its 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  3 

movement  in  turning,  can  produce  on  an  observer  a  moral  effect. 
A  joyous  sanity  came  to  him  from  this  unknown  girl  and 
made  him  feel  joyously  sane.  It  seemed  to  sweep  over  him, 
like  a  cool  and  fresh  breeze  of  the  sea  falling  through  pine 
woods,  to  lift  from  him  some  of  the  dust  of  his  journey.  He 
resolved  to  give  the  remainder  of  the  dust  to  the  public  garden, 
told  his  name,  Dion  Leith,  to  the  manager,  learnt  that  the  room 
he  had  ordered  was  ready  for  him,  had  his  luggage  sent  up  to 
it,  and  then  made  his  way  to  the  trees  on  the  far  side  of  the 
broad  road  which  skirts  the  hotel.  When  he  was  among  them 
he  took  off  his  hat,  kept  it  in  his  hand,  and,  so,  strolled  on 
down  the  almost  deserted  paths.  As  he  walked  he  tasted  the 
autumn,  not  with  any  sadness,  but  with  an  appreciation  that 
was  almost  voluptuous.  He  was  at  a  time  of  life  and  ex- 
perience when,  if  the  body  is  healthy,  the  soul  untroubled  by 
care,  each  season  of  the  year  holds  its  thrill  for  the  strongly 
beating  heart,  its  tonic  gift  for  the  mind.  Falling  leaves  were 
handfuls  of  gold  for  this  man.  The  faint  chill  in  the  air  as 
evening  drew  on  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  brightness  and 
warmth  of  English  fires  burning  on  the  hearths  of  houses  that 
sheltered  dear  and  protected  lives.  The  far-off  voices  of  call- 
ing children,  coming  to  him  from  hidden  places  among  the 
trees,  did  not  make  him  pensive  because  of  their  contrast  with 
things  that  were  dying.  He  hailed  them  as  voices  of  the  youth 
which  lasts  in  the  world,  though  the  world  may  seem  to  be  old 
to  those  who  are  old. 

Dion  Leith  had  a  powerful  grip  on  life  and  good  things. 
He  was  young,  just  twenty-six,  strong  and  healthy,  though 
slim-built  in  body,  alert  and  vigorous  in  mind,  unperturbed 
in  soul,  buoyant  and  warmly  imaginative.  Just  at  that  mo- 
ment the  joy  of  life  was  almost  at  full  flood  in  him,  for  he  had 
recently  been  reveling  in  a  new  and  glorious  experience,  and 
now  carried  it  with  him,  a  precious  memory. 

He  had  been  traveling,  and  his  wanderings  had  given  him 
glimpses  of  two  worlds.  In  one  of  these  worlds  he  had  looked 
into  the  depths,  had  felt  as  if  he  realized  fully  for  the  first 
time  the  violence  of  the  angry  and  ugly  passions  that  deform 
life;  in  the  other  he  had  scaled  the  heights,  had  tasted  the  still 
purity,  the  freshness,  the  exquisite  calm,  which  are  also  to  be 
found  in  life. 

He  had  visited  Constantinople  and  had  sailed  from  it  to 
Greece.  From  Greece  he  had  taken  ship  to  Brindisi,  and 
was  now  on  his  way  home  to  England. 


4  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

What  he  had  thought  at  the  time  to  be  an  ill  chance  had 
sent  him  on  his  way  alone.  Guy  Daventry,  his  great  friend, 
who  was  to  go  with  him,  had  been  seized  by  an  illness.  It 
was  too  late  then  to  find  another  man  free.  So,  reluctantly, 
and  inclined  to  grumble  a  little  at  fate,  Dion  had  set  off  in 
solitude. 

He  knew  now  that  his  solitude  had  given  him  keen  sensa- 
tions, which  he  could  scarcely  have  felt  with  the  best  of  friends. 
Never,  in  any  company,  had  he  been  so  repelled,  enticed,  dis- 
gusted, deeply  enchanted,  as  on  these  lonely  wanderings  which 
were  now  a  part  of  his  life. 

How  he  had  hated  Constantinople,  and  how  he  had  loved 
Greece!  His  expectation  had  been  betrayed  by  the  event.  He 
had  not  known  himself  when  he  left  England,  or  the  part  of 
himself  which  he  had  known  had  been  the  lesser  part,  and  he 
had  taken  it  for  the  greater.  For  he  had  set  out  on  his  journey 
with  his  hopes  mainly  fixed  on  Constantinople.  Its  road  of 
wildness  and  tumult,  its  barbaric  glitter,  its  crude  mixture  of 
races,  even  its  passions  and  crimes  —  a  legend  in  history,  a 
solid  fact  of  to-day  —  had  allured  his  mind.  The  art  of 
Greece  had  beckoned  to  him;  its  ancient  shrines  had  had  their 
strong  summons  for  his  brain;  but  he  had  scarcely  expected 
to  love  the  country.  He  had  imagined  it  as  certainly  beautiful 
but  with  an  austere  and  desolate  beauty  that  would  be,  per- 
haps, almost  repellent  to  his  nature.  He  had  conceived  of  it 
as  probably  sad  in  its  naked  calm,  a  country  weary  with  the 
weight  of  a  glorious  past. 

But  he  had  been  deceived,  and  he  was  glad  of  that.  Because 
he  had  been  able  to  love  Greece  so  much  he  felt  a  greater  con- 
fidence in  himself.  Without  any  ugly  pride  he  said  to  himself: 
"  Perhaps  my  nature  is  a  little  bit  better,  a  little  bit  purer  than 
I  had  supposed." 

As  the  breeze  in  the  public  garden  touched  his  bare  head, 
slightly  lifting  his  thick  dark  hair,  he  remembered  the  winds 
of  Greece;  he  remembered  his  secret  name  for  Greece,  "the 
land  of  the  early  morning."  It  was  good  to  be  able  to  delight 
in  the  early  morning  —  pure,  delicate,  marvelously  fresh. 

He  sat  down  on  a  bench  under  a  chestnut  tree.  The  chil- 
dren's voices  had  died  away.  Silence  seemed  to  be  drawing 
near  to  the  garden.  He  saw  a  few  moving  figures  in  the 
shadows,  but  at  a  distance,  fading  towards  the  city. 

The  line  of  the  figure,  the  poise  of  the  head  of  that  girl  with 
whom  he  had  driven  from  the  station,  came  before  Dion's  eyes 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  5 

in  the  twilight,  evoked  by  the  thought  of  Greece,  the  remem- 
brance of  morning  hours  beside  the  sea  at  Phaleron.  There 
was  something  in  that  girl,  and  not  only  in  her  appearance,  the 
long  line  of  her  untrammeled  figure,  the  gallant  way  in  which 
she  carried  her  head,  but  also  in  her  voice  and  her  movements, 
that  reminded  Dion  of  Greece. 

She  would  surely  have  hated  Constantinople  as  he  had 
hated  it. 

Before  he  saw  the  coast-line  of  Greece,  Dion  had  known 
what  the  country  would  mean  to  him.  A  message  had  been 
given  to  him  far  out  at  sea.  He  had  traveled  from  the  Golden 
Horn  to  the  Piraeus  by  a  Roumanian  boat  on  which  were  few 
people.  Towards  evening  he  had  found  himself  quite  alone 
on  the  vessel's  upper  deck,  which  was  like  an  eyrie  lifted  high 
above  the  calm  water.  He  was  leaning  over  the  rail,  sleepily, 
almost  anesthetized  by  the  strong  and  balmy  airs,  staring  at 
the  sparks  of  gold  which  every  ripple  held  from  the  ship's 
wake  of  foam  to  the  horizon,  when  out  of  the  soft  red  of  the 
west  arose  a  mountain  like  a  dream,  tenderly  classical  in  out- 
line, calm,  a  point  of  rest  for  the  eyes,  the  most  delicate,  pure 
thing,  Dion  thought,  that  he  had  ever  looked  upon.  It  bloomed 
in  a  robe  of  dusky  purple  against  the  sky,  as  a  beautiful 
thought  blooms  in  a  peaceful  mind,  with  something  of  reserve, 
but  nothing  of  repellence.  Its  crest  was  lifted  with  confidence 
towards  the  first  star  of  the  night,  its  base  was  lost  in  the  em- 
bracing seas.  There  was  something  in  the  shape  of  it  that 
made  Dion  think  of  incense  and  of  prayer. 

This  was  the  first  Isle  of  Greece  that  he  had  seen,  and  long 
before  it  faded  and  was  taken  by  the  West  he  had  understood 
its  message.  Again  and  again  during  his  stay  in  Greece  he 
had  thought  of  that  lovely  isle  as  part  of  the  soul  of  Greece  — 
at  Phaleron,  on  Cape  Sunion,  in  the  green  wilds  of  Elis  before 
the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles,  under  the  orange-colored  cliffs  of 
Delphi,  by  night  before  the  Parthenon.  He  loved  it  as  a  man 
loves  a  bearer  of  good  tidings.  He  knew  that  he  must  always 
connect  it  in  his  mind  with  the  thought  of  happiness,  of  the 
romance  of  happiness  which  belongs  only  to  the  few,  which 
has  its  secrets,  its  deep  seclusion,  its  remoteness  from  the  anger 
and  the  dust  of  the  world.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  Dion  that 
if  he  were  to  lose  everything,  to  receive  every  possible  blow, 
to  be  plunged  in  all  that  was  evil  and  hateful,  to  be  over- 
whelmed by  the  ugliness  and  the  filth  of  life,  yet  the  remem- 
brance of  that  Greek  Isle,  blooming  against  the  west  in  the 


6  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

evening  hour,  would  keep  the  spark  of  hope  forever  alive  in 
his  heart.  It  was  a  manifestation  of  untarnished  beauty  that 
helped  him  to  believe  in  God,  and  even  in  himself. 

Surely  that  girl  would  have  loved  his  island! 

As  the  thought  came  into  Dion's  mind,  he  saw  two  women 
approaching  him,  one  taller  than  the  other.  They  were  walk- 
ing more  swiftly  than  Italian  women  often  do,  and,  as  they 
drew  near  to  him,  sent  clear  voices  before  them.  They  came 
up  to  Dion's  bench  and  passed  by,  the  girl  of  the  omnibus  and 
her  sister.  (The  two  were  obviously  sisters.)  The  taller  of 
them  was  on  the  side  of  the  path  next  to  Dion.  She  no  longer 
wore  a  veil.  Dion  saw  that  she  was  wonderfully  fair,  with 
pale  yellow  hair  and  a  complexion  that  told  of  youth  and 
abounding  health.  As  Dion  glanced  up  at  her,  she  looked 
down  at  him  for  a  moment  She  was  talking  energetically, 
and  he  heard  her  say: 

".  .  .  Those  coral  fishers  who  come  there  from  Greece  in 
the  spring."  And  he  saw  a  pair  of  very  characteristic  eyes 
looking  by  chance  at  his  —  large,  steady,  courageous,  yellow- 
brown  eyes  that  seemed  full  of  kindness  and  cheerfulness. 

When  the  two  girls  had  vanished  down  the  path  into  the 
autumn  twilight,  Dion  repeated  to  himself: 

" '.  .  .  Those  coral  fishers  who  come  there  from  Greece  in 
the  spring.' ':  And  as  the  darkness  drew  nearer,  and  the 
bright-colored  leaves  fell  softly  about  him,  his  mind  was  filled 
with  visions,  and  they  were  the  visions  of  youth.  The  pearly 
wonder  of  morning  was  in  them,  the  magical  glimmer  of 
Southern  seas  taking  the  sun.  Fire-browned,  half-naked  fish- 
ermen greeted  the  light  as  if  eager  for  the  rapture  of  toil.  And 
by  the  sea  there  were  women. 

For  a  moment  Dion  closed  his  eyes.  He  wanted  to  summon 
by  an  act  of  the  will  the  sensations  he  had  felt  in  Greece. 
Man  was  made  surely  for  a  shining  world,  was  created  for 
joy.  The  great  Educator  was  joy.  Greece  had  seemed  to  say 
that  to  him.  The  steady,  courageous  eyes  of  that  girl  —  had 
they  not  echoed  it?  Sorrow,  like  sin,  was  an  ugly  thing,  a 
thing  not  intended,  that  had  forced  its  way  into  a  scheme  de- 
vised without  preparation  for  it,  an  intruder  not  to  be  suffered, 
but  to  be  driven  out  even  with  violence. 

Violence  in  connexion  with  Greece!  How  men's  thoughts 
wander!  Dion  smiled  at  his  own  vagaries.  He  opened  his 
eyes.  He  was  quite  alone,  and  the  garden  was  dark  about 
him. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD 


CHAPTER  II 

ONE  winter  day  in  1895  —  it  was  a  Sunday  —  when  fog 
lay  thickly  over  London,  Rosamund  Everard  sat 
alone  in  a  house  in  Great  Cumberland  Place,  reading 
Dante's  "  Paradise."  Her  sister,  Beatrice,  a  pale,  delicate  and 
sensitive  shadow  who  adored  her,  and  her  guardian,  Bruce 
Evelin,  a  well-known  Q.C.  now  retired  from  practice,  had 
gone  into  the  country  to  visit  some  friends.  Rosamund  had 
also  been  invited,  and  much  wanted,  for  there  was  a  party 
in  the  house,  and  her  gaiety,  her  beauty,  and  her  fine  singing 
made  her  a  desirable  guest;  but  she  had  "got  out  of  it."  On 
this  particular  Sunday  she  specially  wished  to  be  in  London. 
At  a  church  not  far  from  Great  Cumberland  Place  —  St 
Mary's,  Welby  Street  —  a  man  was  going  to  preach  that  eve- 
ning whom  she  very  much  wanted  to  hear.  Her  guardian's 
friend,  Canon  Wilton,  had  spoken  to  her  about  him,  and  had 
said  to  her  once,  "  I  should  particularly  like  you  to  hear  him." 
And  somehow  the  simple  words  had  impressed  themselves  upon 
her.  So,  when  she  heard  that  Mr.  Robertson  was  coming  from 
his  church  in  Liverpool  to  preach  at  St.  Mary's,  she  gave  up 
the  country  visit  to  hear  him. 

Beatrice  and  Bruce  Evelin  had  no  scruples  in  leaving  her 
alone  for  a  couple  of  days.  They  knew  that  she,  who  had 
such  an  exceptional  faculty  for  getting  on  with  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  and  women,  and  who  always  shed  sunshine 
around  her,  had  within  her  a  great  love  of,  sometimes  almost 
a  thirst  for,  solitude. 

"  I  need  to  be  alone  now  and  then,"  they  had  heard  her 
say;  "  it's  like  drinking  water  to  me." 

Sitting  quietly  by  the  fire  with  her  delightful  edition  of 
Dante,  her  left  hand  under  her  head,  her  tall  figure  stretched 
out  in  a  low  chair,  Rosamund  heard  a  bell  ring  below.  It 
called  her  from  the  "  Paradiso."  She  sprang  up,  remembering 
that  she  had  given  the  butler  no  orders  about  not  wishing  to 
be  disturbed.  At  lunch-time  the  fog  had  been  so  dense  that 
she  had  not  thought  about  possible  visitors;  she  hurried  to  the 
head  of  the  staircase. 

"Lurby!     Lurby!     I'm  not  at " 

It  was  too  late.  The  butler  must  have  been  in  the  halL 
She  heard  the  street  door  open  and  a  man's  voice  murmuring 
something.  Then  the  door  shut  and  she  heard  steps.  She 


8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

retreated  into  the  drawing-room,  pulling  down  her  brows  and 
shaking  her  head.  No  more  "  Paradiso,"  and  she  loved  it  sol 
A  moment  before  she  had  been  far  away. 

"  Regnum  coelorum  violenza  pate 

da  caldo  amore  a  da  viva  speranza, 
Che  vince  la  divina  volontate." 

The  book  was  lying  open  on  the  arm-chair  in  which  she  had 
been  sitting.  She  went  to  close  it  and  put  it  on  a  table.  For 
an  instant  she  looked  down  on  the  page,  and  immediately  her 
dream  returned.  Then  Lurby's  dry,  soft  voice  said  behind  her: 

"  Mr.  Leith,  ma'am." 

4 'Oh!  "     She  turned,  leaving  the  book. 

Directly  she  looked  at  Dion  Leith  she  knew  why  he  had 
come. 

"  I'm  all  alone,"  Rosamund  said.  "  I  stayed  here,  instead 
of  going  to  Sherrington  with  Beattie  and  my  guardian,  because 
I  wanted  to  hear  a  sermon  this  evening.  Come  and  sit  down 
by  the  fire." 

"What  church  are  you  going  to?  " 

"  St.  Mary's,  Welby  Street." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?" 

Rosamund  had  taken  up  the  "  Paradiso "  and  was  shut- 
ting it. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  alone,"  she  said  gently  but  quite  firmly. 

"  What  were  you  reading  ?  " 

"  Dante's  '  Paradiso.'  " 

She  put  the  book  down  on  a  table  at  her  elbow. 

*'  I  don't  believe  you  meant  me  to  be  let  in,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  you.     How  could  I  know?  " 

"  And  if  you  had  known  ?  " 

She  hesitated.  His  brows  contracted  till  he  looked  almost 
fierce. 

"  I'm  not  sure.  Honestly  I'm  not  sure.  I've  been  quite 
alone  since  Friday,  when  they  went.  And  I'd  got  it  into  my 
head  that  I  wasn't  going  to  see  any  one  till  to-morrow,  except, 
of  course,  at  church." 

Dion  felt  chilled  almost  to  the  bone. 

"  I  can't  understand,"  he  almost  burst  out,  in  an  uncon- 
trolled way  that  surprised  himself.  "  Are  you  completely  self- 
sufficing  then?  But  it  isn't  natural.  Could  you  live  alone?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  that." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  9 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  and  calmly,  without  a  hint  of 
anger. 

"But  could  you?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Probably  not.     I've  never  tried." 

"  But  you  don't  hate  the  idea  ?  " 

His  voice  was  almost  violent. 

"No;  if  —  if  I  were  living  in  a  certain  way." 

"What  way?" 

But  she  did  not  answer  his  question. 

"  I  dare  say  I  might  dislike  living  alone.  I've  never  done 
such  a  thing,  therefore  I  can't  tell." 

"  You're  an  enigma,"  he  exclaimed.  "  And  you  seem  so  — - 
so  —  you  have  this  extraordinary,  this  abnormal  power  of  at- 
tracting people  to  you.  You  are  friends  with  everybody.'' 

"  Indeed  I'm  not." 

"  I  mean  you're  so  cordial,  so  friendly  with  everybody. 
Don't  you  care  for  anybody?  " 

"  I  care  very  much  for  some  people." 

"  And  yet  you  could  live  alone !  Shut  in  here  for  days  with 
a  book  " —  at  that  moment  he  was  positively  jealous  of  old 
Dante,  gone  to  his  rest  five  hundred  and  seventy-four  years  ago 
— "  you're  perfectly  happy." 

"  The  '  Paradise '  isn't  an  ordinary  book,"  she  said,  very 
gently,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  kind,  almost  beaming  ex- 
pression in  her  yellow-brown  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  ever  read  an  ordinary  book." 

"  I  like  to  feed  on  fine  things.  I'm  half  afraid  of  the 
second-rate." 

"  I  love  you  for  that.  Oh,  Rosamund,  I  love  you  for  so 
many  things!  " 

He  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire,  turning  his  back  to  her  for 
a  moment.  When  he  swung  round  his  face  was  earnest  but 
he  looked  calmer.  She  saw  that  he  was  making  a  strong 
effort  to  hold  himself  in,  that  he  was  reaching  out  after  self- 
control. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  all  the  things  I  love  you  for,"  he  said,  "  but 
your  independence  of  spirit  frightens  me.  From  the  very  first, 
from  that  evening  when  I  saw  you  in  the  omnibus  at  the  Milan 
Station  over  a  year  ago,  I  felt  your  independence." 

"  Did  I  manifest  it  in  the  omnibus  to  poor  Beattie  and  my 
guardian  ?  "  she  asked,  smiling,  and  in  a  lighter  tone. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  gravely.  "  But  when  I  saw  you 
the  same  evening  walking  with  your  sister  in  the  public  garden 


10  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

I  felt  it  more  strongly.  Even  the  way  you  held  your  head 
and  moved  —  you  reminded  me  of  the  maidens  of  the  Porch 
on  the  Acropolis.  I  connected  you  with  Greece  and  all  my  — 
my  dreams  of  Greece." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  hadn't  just  come  from  Greece 

"  Wasn't  it  strange,"  he  said,  interrupting  her  but  quite 
unconscious  that  he  did  so,  "  that  almost  the  first  words  I  heard 
you  speak  were  about  Greece?  You  were  telling  your  sister 
about  the  Greek  divers  who  come  to  Portofino  to  find  coral 
under  the  sea.  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  garden,  and  you 
passed  and  I  heard  just  a  few  words.  They  made  me  think 
of  the  first  Greek  Island  I  ever  saw,  rising  out  of  the  sunset 
as  I  voyaged  from  Constantinople  to  the  Piraeus.  It  was  won- 
derfully beautiful  and  wonderfully  calm.  It  was  like  a  herald 
of  all  the  beauty  and  purity  I  found  in  Greece.  It  was  —  like 
you." 

"  How  you  hated  Constantinople!  "  she  said.  "  I  remember 
you  denouncing  its  noise  and  its  dirt,  and  the  mongrel  horrors 
of  Pera,  to  my  guardian  in  the  hotel  where  we  made  friends. 
And  he  put  in  a  plea  for  Stamboul." 

"  Yes,  I  exaggerated.  But  Constantinople  stood  to  me  for 
all  the  uproar  of  life,  and  Greece  for  the  calm  and  beauty  and 
happiness,  the  great  Sanity  of  the  true  happiness." 

He  looked  at  her  with  yearning  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"  For  all  I  want  in  my  own  life,"  he  added. 

He  paused;  then  an  expression  of  strong,  almost  hard  reso- 
lution made  his  face  look  suddenly  older. 

"  You  told  me  at  Burstal,  on  the  Chilton  Downs,  after  your 
debut  in  '  Elijah,'  that  you  would  give  me  an  answer  soon. 
I  have  waited  a  good  while  —  some  weeks " 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me  just  that  day,  after  '  Woe  unto 
them'?" 

"  I  felt  I  must,"  he  answered,  but  with  a  slight  awkwardness, 
as  if  he  were  evading  something  and  felt  half-guilty.  "  To-day 
I  decided  I  would  ask  you  again,  for  the  last  time." 

"  You  would  never " 

"  No,  never.  If  you  say  '  Wait,  and  come  later  on  and  ask 
me,'  I  shall  not  come." 

She  got  up  restlessly.     She  was  obviously  moved. 

"  Dion,  I  can't  tell  you  to-day." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  just  feel  I  can't.     It's  no  use." 

"  When  did  you  mean  to  tell  me?  " 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  11 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Did  you  mean  ever  to  allude  to  the  matter  again,  if  I 
hadn't?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  told  you,  because  I  knew  you  were 
waiting.  I  —  I  —  often  I  have  thought  that  I  shall  never 
marry  any  one." 

She  looked  into  the  fire.  Her  face  had  become  almost 
mysterious. 

"  Some  women  don't  need  —  that,"  she  murmured. 

The  fire  played  over  her  pale  yellow  hair. 

"  Abnormal  women !  "  he  exclaimed  violently. 

She  turned. 

"  Hush !  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  It  isn't 
abnormal  to  wish  to  dedicate " 

She  stopped. 

"What?"  he  said. 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  these  things.  But  you  must  not  judge 
any  woman  without  knowing  what  is  in  her  heart.  Even  your 
own  mother,  with  whom  you  have  lived  alone  ever  since  your 
father's  death  —  do  you  know  very  much  of  her?  We  can't 
always  show  ourselves  plainly  as  we  are.  It  may  not  be  our 
fault." 

"  You  will  marry.     You  must  marry." 

"Why  — must?" 

He  gazed  at  her.  As  she  met  his  eyes  she  reddened  slightly, 
understanding  his  thought,  that  such  a  woman  as  she  was 
ought  not  to  avoid  the  great  vocation  of  woman.  But  there  was 
another  vocation,  and  perhaps  it  was  hers.  She  felt  confused. 
Two  desires  were  struggling  within  her.  It  was  as  if  her 
nature  contained  two  necessities  which  were  wholly  irreconcil- 
able the  one  with  the  other. 

"  You  can't  tell  me?  "  he  said,  at  last 

"Not  now." 

"  Then  I  am  going,  and  I  shall  never  ask  you  again.  But 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  love  any  one  but  you." 

He  said  nothing  more,  and  went  away  without  touching 
her  hand. 

"Da  caldo  amore  a  da  viva  speranza,  Che  vince  la  divina 
volontate." 

Those  words  of  Dante  ran  in  Rosamund's  head,  and  she 
repeated  them  to  herself  after  Dion  had  gone. 

"  La  divina  volontate!  "  She  believed  in  it ;  she  said  to  her- 
self that  she  trusted  it  absolutely.  But  how  was  she  to  know 


12  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

exactly  what  it  was?  And  yet,  could  she  escape  from  it  even 
if  she  wished  to?  Could  she  wander  away  into  any  path  where 
the  Divine  Will  did  not  mean  her  to  set  foot?  Predestination 
—  free  will.  "  If  only  I  were  not  so  ignorant,"  she  thought. 

Soon  after  six  she  went  up  to  her  bedroom  to  put  on  her 
things  for  church. 

Her  bedroom  was  very  simple,  and  showed  plainly  an  in- 
difference to  luxury,  a  dislike  of  show  and  of  ostentation  in  its 
owner.  The  walls  and  ceiling  were  white.  The  bed,  which 
stood  against  the  wall  in  one  corner,  was  exceptionally  loag. 
This  fact,  perhaps,  made  it  look  exceptionally  narrow.  It  was 
quite  plain,  had  a  white  wooden  bedstead,  and  was  covered 
with  a  white  bedspread  of  a  very  ordinary  type.  There  was 
one  arm-chair  in  the  room  made  of  wickerwork  with  a  rather 
hard  cushion  on  the  seat,  the  sort  of  cushion  that  resolutely 
refuses  to  "  give  "  when  one  sits  down  on  it.  On  the  small 
dressing-table  there  was  no  array  of  glittering  silver  bottles, 
boxes  and  brushes.  A  straw  flagon  of  eau-de-Cologne  was 
Rosamund's  sole  possession  of  perfume.  She  did  not  own  a 
box  of  powder  or  a  puff.  But  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
she  never  looked  "  shiny."  She  had  some  ivory  hair-brushes 
given  to  her  one  Christmas  by  Bruce  Evelin.  Beside  them  was 
placed  a  hideous  receptacle  for  —  well,  for  anything  —  pins, 
perhaps,  buttons,  small  tiresomenesses  of  that  kind.  It  was 
made  of  some  glistening  black  material,  and  at  its  center  there 
bloomed  a  fearful  red  cabbage  rose,  a  rose  all  vulgarity,  osten- 
tation and  importance.  This  monstrosity  had  been  given  to 
Rosamund  as  a  thank-offering  by  a  poor  charwoman  to  whom 
she  had  been  kind.  It  had  been  in  constant  use  now  for  over 
three  years.  The  charwoman  knew  this  with  grateful  pride. 

Upon  the  mantelpiece  there  were  other  gifts  of  a  similar 
kind:  a  photograph  frame  made  of  curly  shells,  a  mug  with 
"  A  present  from  Greenwich  "  written  across  it  in  gold  letters, 
a  flesh-colored  glass  vase  with  yellow  trimmings,  a  china  cow 
with  its  vermilion  ears  cocked  forward,  lying  down  in  a  green 
meadow  which  just  held  it,  and  a  toy  trombone  with  a  cord 
and  tassels.  There  were  also  several  photographs  of  poor 
people  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  On  the  walls  hung  a  photo- 
graph of  Cardinal  Newman,  a  good  copy  of  a  Luini  Madonna, 
two  drawings  of  heads  by  Burne- Jones,  a  small  painting  — 
signed  "  G.  F.  Watts  " —  of  an  old  tree  trunk  around  which 
ivy  was  lovingly  growing,  and  one  or  two  prints. 

The  floor  was  polished  and  partially  covered  by  three  good- 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  13 

sized  mats.  There  was  a  writing-table  on  one  side  of  the  room 
with  an  ebony-and-gold  crucifix  standing  upon  it.  Opposite 
to  it,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  near  the  fireplace,  was  a 
bookcase.  On  the  shelves  were  volumes  of  Shakespeare,  Dante, 
Emerson,  Wordsworth,  Browning,  Christina  Rossetti,  New- 
man's "  Dream  of  Gerontius "  and  "  Apologia,"  Thomas  a 
Kempis,  several  works  on  mystics  and  mysticism,  a  life  of  St. 
Catherine  of  Genoa,  another  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  St.  Ig- 
natius Loyola's  "  Spiritual  Exercises,"  Pascal's  "  Letters,"  etc., 
etc.  Over  the  windows  hung  gray-blue  curtains. 

Into  this  room  Rosamund  came  that  evening;  she  went  to 
a  wardrobe  and  began  to  take  down  a  long  sealskin  coat.  Just 
then  her  maid  appeared  —  an  Italian  girl  whom  she  had  taken 
into  her  service  in  Milan  when  she  had  studied  singing  there. 

"  Shan't  I  come  with  you,  Signorina  ?  "  she  asked,  as  she 
took  the  jacket  from  her  mistress  and  held  it  for  Rosamund 
to  put  on. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Maria.  I'm  going  to  church,  the  Pro- 
testant church." 

"  I  could  wait  outside  or  come  back  to  fetch  you." 

"  It's  not  far.     I  shall  be  all  right" 

"  But  the  fog  is  terrible.     It's  like  a  wall  about  the  house." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

She  went  to  one  of  the  windows,  pulled  aside  the  curtains, 
lifted  the  blind  and  tried  to  look  out.  But  she  could  not,  for 
the  fog  pressed  against  the  window  panes  and  hid  the  street 
and  the  houses  opposite. 

"  It  is  bad." 

She  dropped  the  blind,  let  the  curtains  fall  into  place  and 
turned  round. 

"  But  I'd  rather  go  alone.  I  can't  miss  the  way,  and  I'm  not 
a  nervous  person.  You'd  be  far  more  frightened  than  I." 
She  smiled  at  the  girl. 

Apparently  reassured,  or  perhaps  merely  glad  that  her  un- 
selfishness was  not  going  to  be  tested,  Maria  accompanied  her 
mistress  downstairs  and  let  her  out.  It  was  Lurby's  "  evening 
off,"  and  for  once  he  was  not  discreetly  on  hand. 

Church  bells  were  chiming  faintly  in  this  City  of  dreadful 
night  as  Rosamund  almost  felt  her  way  onward.  She  heard 
them  and  thought  they  were  sad,  and  their  melancholy  seemed 
to  be  one  with  the  melancholy  of  the  atmosphere.  Some  one 
passed  by  her.  She  just  heard  a  muffled  sound  of  steps,  just 
discerned  a  shadow  —  that  was  all. 


14  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

To-morrow  she  must  give  an  answer  to  Dion  Leith.  She 
went  on  slowly  in  the  fog,  thinking,  thinking.  Two  vertical 
lines  showed  in  her  usually  smooth  forehead. 

It  was  nearly  half-past  six  when  she  turned  into  Welby 
Street.  The  church  was  not  a  large  one  and  there  was  no 
parish  attached  to  it.  It  was  a  proprietary  chapel.  The  in- 
come of  the  incumbent  came  from  pew  rents.  His  name  was 
Limer,  and  he  was  a  first-rate  preacher  of  the  sensational  type, 
a  pulpit  dealer  in  "  actualities."  He  was  also  an  excellent 
musician,  and  took  great  pains  with  his  choir.  In  consequence 
of  these  talents,  and  of  his  diligent  application  of  them,  St. 
Mary's  was  generally  full,  and  all  its  pews  were  let  at  a  high 
figure.  To-night,  however,  because  of  the  fog,  Rosamund  ex- 
pected to  find  few  people. 

One  bell  was  mournfully  ringing  as  she  drew  near  and 
presently  saw  a  faint  gleaming  of  light  through  long  narrow 
windows  of  painted  glass.  "Ping,  ping,  ping!"  It  was  a 
thin  little  summons  to  prayer.  She  passed  through  a  gateway 
in  some  railings  of  wrought  ironwork,  crossed  a  slippery  pave- 
ment and  entered  the  church. 

It  was  already  more  than  three  parts  full,  and  there  was 
a  large  proportion  of  men  in  the  congregation.  A  smart- 
looking  young  man,  evidently  a  gentleman,  who  was  standing 
close  to  the  door,  nodded  to  Rosamund  and  whispered: 

"  I'll  put  you  into  Lady  Millingham's  seat.  You'll  find 
Mrs.  Chetwinde  and  Mr.  Darlington  there." 

"  Oh,  I'd  rather "  began  Rosamund. 

But  he  had  already  begun  to  move  up  the  aisle,  and  she 
was  obliged  to  follow  him  to  a.  pew  close  to  the  pulpit,  in  which 
were  seated  a  smartly  dressed  woman  with  a  vague  and  yet 
acute  expression,  pale  eyes  and  a  Burne- Jones  throat;  and  a 
thin,  lanky  and  immensely  tall  man  of  uncertain  age,  with 
pale  brown,  very  straight  hair,  large  white  ears,  thick  ragged 
eyebrows,  a  carefully  disarranged  beard  and  mustache,  and 
an  irregular  refined  face  decorated  with  a  discreet  but  kind 
expression.  These  were  Mrs.  Willie  Chetwinde,  who  had  a 
wonderful  house  in  Lowndes  Square,  and  Mr.  Esme  Darling- 
ton, bachelor,  of  St.  James's  Square,  who  was  everybody's 
friend  including  his  own. 

Rosamund  just  recognized  them  gravely;  then  she  knelt 
down  and  prayed  earnestly,  with  her  face  hidden  against  her 
muff.  She  still  heard  the  little  bell's  insistent  "  Ping,  ping, 
ping !  "  She  pressed  her  shut  eyes  so  hard  against  the  muff 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  15 

that  rings  of  yellow  light  floated  up  in  her  darkness,  forming, 
retreating,  melting  away. 

The  bell  ceased;  the  first  notes  of  the  organ  sounded  in  a 
voluntary  by  Mendelssohn,  amiable  and  charming;  the  choir 
filed  in  as  Rosamund  rose  from  her  knees.  In  the  procession 
the  two  last  figures  were  Mr.  Limer  and  Mr.  —  or,  as  he  was 
always  called  in  Liverpool,  Father  —  Robertson. 

Mr.  Limer  was  a  short,  squat,  clean-shaven  but  hairy  dark 
man,  with  coal-black  hair  sweeping  round  a  big  forehead,  a 
determined  face  and  large,  indignant  brown  eyes.  The  Liver- 
pool clergyman  was  of  middle  height,  very  thin,  with  snow- 
white  hair,  dark  eyes  and  eyebrows,  and  a  young  almost  boyish 
face,  with  straight,  small  features,  and  a  luminous,  gentle  and 
yet  intense  look.  He  seemed  almost  to  glow,  quietly,  definitely, 
like  a  lamp  set  in  a  dark  place,  and  one  felt  that  his  glow  could 
not  easily  be  extinguished.  He  walked  tranquilly  by  the  side 
of  Mr.  Limer,  and  looked  absolutely  unself-conscious,  quietly 
dignified  and  simple. 

When  he  went  into  the  pulpit  the  lights  were  lowered  and 
a  pleasant  twilight  prevailed.  But  the  preacher's  face  was 
strongly  illuminated. 

Mr.  Robertson  preached  on  the  sin  of  egoism,  and  took  as 
.the  motto  of  his  sermon  the  words  — "  Ego  dormio  et  cor  meum 
vigilat."  His  method  of  preaching  was  quiet,  but  intense; 
again  the  glow  of  the  lamp.  Often  there  were  passages  which 
suggested  a  meditation  —  a  soul  communing  with  itself  fear- 
lessly, with  an  unyielding,  but  never  violent,  determination  to 
arrive  at  the  truth.  And  Rosamund,  listening,  felt  as  if  noth- 
ing could  keep  this  man  with  the  snow-white  hair  and  the  young 
face  away  from  the  truth. 

He  ranged  over  a  wide  field  —  egoism  being  wide  as  the 
world  —  he  exposed  many  of  the  larger  evils  brought  about  by 
egoism,  in  connexion  with  the  Arts,  with  politics,  with  charity, 
with  religious  work  in  great  cities,  with  missionary  enterprises 
abroad;  he  touched  on  some  of  the  more  subtle  forms  of  ego- 
ism, which  may  poison  even  the  sources  of  love;  and  finally 
he  discussed  the  gains  and  the  losses  of  egoism.  "  For,"  he 
said,  "  let  us  be  honest  and  acknowledge  that  we  often  gain, 
in  the  worldly  sense,  by  our  sins,  and  sometimes  lose  by  our 
virtues."  Power  of  a  kind  can  be,  and  very  often  is,  obtained 
by  egoists  through  their  egoism.  He  discussed  that  power, 
showed  its  value  and  the  glory  of  it.  Then  he  contrasted  with 
it  the  power  which  is  only  obtained  by  those  who,  completely 


16  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

unselfish,  know  not  how  to  think  of  themselves.  He  en- 
larged on  this  theme,  on  the  Kingdom  which  can  belong  only 
to  those  who  are  selfless.  And  then  he  drew  to  the  end  of  his 
sermon. 

"  One  of  the  best  means  I  know,"  he  said,  "  for  getting  rid 
of  egoism  is  this:  whenever  you  have  to  take  some  big  decision 
between  two  courses  of  action  —  perhaps  between  two  life- 
courses  —  ask  yourself,  '  Which  can  I  share  ?  ' —  which  of  these 
two  paths  is  wide  enough  to  admit  of  my  treading  it  with  a 
companion,  whose  steps  I  can  help,  whose  journey  I  can  enliven, 
whose  weariness  I  can  solace,  and  whose  burden  I  can  now  and 
then  bear  for  a  little  while?  And  if  only  one  of  the  paths  is 
wide  enough,  then  choose  that  in  preference  to  the  other.  I 
believe  profoundly  in  '  sharing  terms.' ': 

He  paused,  gazing  at  the  congregation  with  his  soft  and 
luminous  eyes.  Then  he  added: 

"Ego  dormio  et  cor  meum  vigilat.  When  the  insistent  / 
sleeps,  only  then  perhaps  can  the  heart  be  truly  awake,  be  really 
watchful.  Then  let  us  send  the  insistent  I  to  sleep,  and  let  us 
keep  it  slumbering." 

He  half-smiled  as  he  finished.  There  had  been  something 
slightly  whimsical  about  his  final  words,  about  his  manner  and 
himself  when  he  said  them. 

Silence  and  the  fog,  and  Rosamund  walking  homewards  with 
her  hands  deep  in  her  muff.  All  those  bodies  and  minds  and 
souls  which  had  been  in  the  church  had  evaporated  into  the 
night.  Mrs.  Chetwinde  and  Esme  Darlington  had  wanted  to 
speak  to  Rosamund,  but  she  had  slipped  out  of  the  church 
quickly.  She  did  not  wish  to  talk  to  any  one. 

"  Ego  dormio  et  cor  meum  vigilat." 

What  an  odd  little  turn,  or  twist,  the  preacher  had  given  to 
the  meaning  of  those  words !  "  Whenever  you  have  to  take 
some  big  decision  between  two  life  courses,  ask  yourself,  '  Which 
can  I  share?  '  and  if  you  can  only  share  one,  choose  that." 

Very  slowly  Rosamund  walked  on,  bending  a  little  above  the 
big  muff,  like  one  pulled  forward  by  a  weight  of  heavy  thoughts. 
She  turned  a  corner.  Presently  she  turned  another  corner 
and  traversed  a  square,  which  could  not  be  seen  to  be  a  square. 
And  then,  quite  suddenly,  she  realized  that  she  had  not  been 
thinking  about  her  way  home  and  that  she  was  lost  in  the  im- 
penetrable fog. 

She  stood  still  and  listened.  She  heard  nothing.  Traffic 
seemed  stopped  in  this  region.  On  her  left  were  three  steps. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  17 

She  went  up  them  and  was  under  the  porch  of  a  house.  Light 
shone  dully  from  within,  and  by  it  she  could  just  make  out  on 
the  door  the  number  "  8."  At  least  it  seemed  to  her  that  prob- 
ably it  was  an  "  8."  She  hesitated,  came  down  the  steps,  and 
walked  on.  It  was  impossible  to  see  the  names  of  streets  and 
squares.  But  presently  she  would  come  across  a  policeman. 
She  went  on  and  on,  but  no  policeman  bulked  shadowy  against 
the  background  of  night  and  of  the  fog  which  at  last  seemed 
almost  terrible  to  her. 

Rosamund  was  not  timid.  She  was  constitutionally  incapa- 
ble of  timidity.  Nor  was  she  actively  alarmed  in  a  strong 
and  definite  way.  But  gradually  there  seemed  to  permeate  her 
a  cold,  almost  numbing  sensation  of  loneliness  and  of  desola- 
tion. For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  not  merely  alone 
but  solitary,  and  not  merely  solitary  but  as  if  she  were  con- 
demned to  be  so  by  some  power  that  was  hostile  to  her. 

It  was  a  hideous  feeling.  Something  in  the  fog  and  in  the 
night  made  an  assault  upon  her  imagination.  Abruptly  she 
was  numbered  among  the  derelict  women  whom  nobody  wants, 
whom  no  man  thinks  of  or  wishes  to  be  with,  whom  no  child 
calls  mother.  She  felt  physically  and  morally,  "  I  am  solitary," 
and  it  was  horrible  to  her.  She  saw  herself  old  and  alone,  and 
she  shuddered. 

How  long  she  walked  on  she  did  not  know,  but  when  at  last 
she  heard  a  step  shuffling  along  somewhere  in  front  of  her,  she 
had  almost  —  she  thought  —  realized  Eternity. 

The  step  was  not  coming  towards  her  but  was  going  onwards 
slowly  before  her.  She  hastened,  and  presently  came  up  with 
an  old  man,  poorly  dressed  in  a  dreadful  frock-coat  and  dis- 
graceful trousers,  wearing  on  his  long  gray  locks  a  desperado 
of  a  top  hat,  and  carrying,  in  a  bloated  and  almost  purple  hand, 
a  large  empty  jug. 

"  Please!  "  said  Rosamund. 

The  old  gentleman  shuffled  on. 

"  Could  you  tell  me  —  please  —  can  you  tell  me  where  we 
are?" 

She  had  grasped  his  left  coat-sleeve.  He  turned  and,  bend- 
ing, she  peered  into  the  face  of  a  drunkard. 

"  Close  to  the  '  Daniel  Lambert,'  "  said  an  almost  refined  old 
voice. 

And  a  pair  of  pathetic  gray  eyes  peered  up  at  her  above  a 
nose  that  was  like  a  conflagration. 

"  Where's  that?    What  is  it?  " 


i8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Don't  you  know  the  '  Daniel  Lambert '?  " 

The  voice  sounded  very  surprised  and  almost  suspi- 
cious. 

"  No." 

"  It's  well  known,  very  well  known.  I'm  just  popping  round 
there  to  get  a  little  something  —  eh!  " 

The  voice  died  away. 

"  I  want  to  find  Great  Cumberland  Place." 

"  Well,  you're  pretty  close  to  it.  The  '  Daniel  Lambert's  '  in 
the  Edgware  Road." 

"  Could  you  find  it  ?  —  Great  Cumberland  Place,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  wish  you  would.     I  should  be  so  grateful." 

The  gray  eyes  became  more  pathetic. 

"  Grateful  to  me  —  would  you,  miss?  I'll  go  with  you  and 
very  glad  to  do  it." 

The  old  gentleman  took  Rosamund  home  and  talked  to  her 
on  the  way.  When  they  parted  she  asked  for  his  name  and  ad- 
dress. He  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  gave  it:  "Mr. 
Thrush,  2  Abingdon  Buildings,  John's  Court,  near  Edgware 
Road." 

"  Thank  you.     You've  done  me  a  good  turn." 

At  this  moment  the  front  door  was  opened  by  the  house- 
maid. 

"  Oh  —  miss !  "  she  said. 

Her  eyes  left  Rosamund  and  fastened  themselves,  like 
weapons,  on  the  old  gentleman's  nose.  He  lifted  his  desperado 
of  a  hat  and  immediately  turned  away,  trying  to  conceal  his  jug 
under  his  left  arm,  but  inadvertently  letting  it  protrude. 

"  Good  night,  and  thank  you  very  much  indeed!  "  Rosamund 
called  after  him  with  warm  cordiality. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  got  back,  miss.  We  were  in  a  way.  It's 
ever  so  late." 

"  I  got  lost  in  the  fog.    That  dear  old  man  rescued  me." 

"  I'm  very  thankful,  miss,  I'm  sure." 

The  girl  seemed  stiffened  with  astonishment.  She  shut  the 
street  door  automatically. 

"  He  used  to  be  a  chemist  once." 

"Did  he,  miss?" 

"  Yes,  quite  a  successful  one  too;  just  off  Hanover  Square,  he 
told  me.  He  was  going  round  to  get  something  for  his  supper 
when  we  met." 

"Indeed,  miss?" 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  19 

Rosamund  went  upstairs. 

"  Yes,  poor  old  man,"  she  said,  as  she  ascended. 

Like  most  people  in  perfect  health  Rosamund  slept  well; 
but  that  night  she  lay  awake.  She  did  not  want  to  sleep. 
She  had  something  to  decide,  something  of  vital  importance 
to  her.  Two  courses  lay  open  to  her.  She  might  marry  Dion 
Leith,  or  she  might  resolve  never  to  marry.  Like  most  girls 
she  had  had  dreams,  but  unlike  most  girls,  she  had  often  dreamed 
of  a  life  in  which  men  had  no  place.  She  had  recently  en- 
tered upon  the  career  of  a  public  singer,  not  because  she  was 
obliged  to  earn  money  but  because  she  had  a  fine  voice  and  a 
strong  temperament,  and  longed  for  self-expression.  But  she 
had  always  believed  that  her  public  career  would  be  a  short 
one.  She  loved  fine  music  and  enjoyed  bringing  its  message 
home  to  people,  but  she  had  little  or  no  personal  vanity,  and  the 
life  of  a  public  performer  entailed  a  great  deal  which  she  al- 
ready found  herself  disliking.  Recently,  too,  her  successful  ca- 
reer had  received  a  slight  check.  She  had  made  her  festival 
debut  at  Burstal  in  "  Elijah,"  and  no  engagements  for  oratorio 
had  followed  upon  it.  Some  day,  while  she  was  still  young,  she 
meant  to  retire,  and  then 

If  she  married  Dion  Leith  she  would  have  to  give  up  an  old 
dream.  On  the  other  hand,  if  she  married  him,  perhaps  some 
day  she  would  be  a  mother.  She  felt  certain  —  she  did  not 
know  why  —  that  if  she  did  not  marry  Dion  Leith  she  would 
never  marry  at  all. 

She  thought,  she  prayed,  she  thought  again.  Sometimes  in 
the  dark  hours  of  that  night  the  memory  of  her  sensation  of 
loneliness  in  the  fog  returned  to  her.  Sometimes  Mr.  Robert- 
son's "  Which  can  I  share?  "  echoed  within  her,  ifi  the  resonant 
chamber  of  her  soul.  He  had  been  very  quiet,  but  he  had  made 
an  enormous  impression  upon  her;  he  had  made  her  hate  egoism 
much  more  than  she  had  hated  it  hitherto. 

Even  into  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  religion  egoism  can  per- 
haps find  a  way.  The  thought  of  that  troubled  Rosamund  in 
the  dark.  But  when  the  hour  of  dawn  drew  near  she  fell  asleep. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind,  or,  rather,  it  had  surely  been  made 
up  for  her.  For  a  conviction  had  come  upon  her  that  for  good 
or  for  evil  it  was  meant  that  her  life  should  be  linked  with 
Dion  Leith's.  He  possessed  something  which  she  valued 
highly,  and  which,  she  thought,  was  possessed  by  very  few  men. 
He  offered  it  to  her.  If  she  refused  it,  such  an  offering  would 
probably  never  be  made  to  her  again. 


20  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

To  be  a  lonely  woman;  to  be  a  subtle  and  profound  egoist;  to 
be  loved,  cherished,  worshiped;  to  be  a  mother. 

Many  lives  of  women  seemed  to  float  before  her  eyes. 

Just  before  she  lost  consciousness  it  seemed  to  her,  for  a  mo- 
ment, that  she  was  looking  into  the  pathetic  eyes  of  the  old  man 
whom  she  had  met  in  the  fog. 

"  Poor  old  man!  "  she  murmured. 

She  slept. 

On  the  following  morning  she  sent  this  note  to  Dion  Leith: 

"  MY  DEAR  DION, —  I  will  marry  you. 

"  ROSAMUND." 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  the  following  spring,  Rosamund  and  Dion  were  mar- 
ried, and  Dion  took  Rosamund  "  to  the  land  of  the  early 
morning." 

They  arrived  in  Greece  at  the  beginning  of  May,  when  the 
rains  were  over  and  the  heats  of  summer  were  at  hand.  The 
bed  of  the  Ilissus  was  empty.  Dust  lay  white  in  the  streets  of 
Athens  and  along  the  road  to  Phaleron  and  the  sea.  The  low- 
lying  tracts  of  country  were  desert-dry,  and  about  Athens  the 
world  was  arrayed  in  a  garb  of  the  East.  Nevertheless  there 
was  still  a  delicate  freshness  in  the  winds  that  blew  to  the  lit- 
tle city  from  the  purple  ^Egean  or  from  the  mountains  of  Ar- 
golis;  stirring  the  dust  into  spiral  dances  among  the  pale  houses 
upon  which  Lycabettos  looks  down;  shaking  the  tiny  leaves 
of  the  tressy  pepper  trees  near  the  Royal  Palace;  whispering 
the  antique  secrets  of  the  ages  into  the  ears  of  the  maidens  who, 
unwearied  and  happily  submissive,  bear  up  the  Porch  of  the 
Erechtheion;  stealing  across  the  vast  spaces  and  between  the 
mighty  columns  of  the  Panthenon.  The  dawns  and  the  twi- 
lights had  not  lost  the  pure  savor  of  their  almost  frail  vitality. 
The  deepness  of  slumber  still  came  with  the  nights. 

Greece  was,  perhaps,  at  her  loveliest.  And  Greece  was  al- 
most deserted  by  travelers.  They  had  come  and  gone  with  the 
spring,  leaving  the  land  to  its  own,  and  to  those  two  who  had 
come  there  to  drink  deep  at  the  wells  of  happiness.  And,  a  lit- 
tle selfish  as  lovers  are,  Rosamund  and  Dion  took  everything 
wonderful  and  beautiful  as  their  possession. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  21 

The  yellow-green  pines  near  the  convent  of  Daphni  threw 
patches  of  shade  on  the  warm  earth  because  they  wanted  to  rest 
there;  the  kingfisher  rose  in  low  and  arrow-like  flight  from  the 
banks  of  Khephissus  to  make  a  sweet  diversion  for  them;  they 
longed  for  brilliance,  and  the  lagoons  of  Salamis  were  dyed 
with  a  wonder  of  emerald ;  they  asked  for  twilight,  and  the  deep 
and  deserted  glades  of  Academe  gave  it  them  in  full  measure. 
All  these  possessions,  and  many  others,  they  enjoyed  almost  as 
children  enjoy  a  meadow  full  of  flowers  when  they  have  climbed 
over  the  gate  that  bars  it  from  the  high  road.  But  the  Acropolis 
was  the  stronghold  of  their  joy.  Only  when  their  feet  pressed 
its  silvery  grasses,  and  trod  its  warm  marble  pavements,  did 
they  hold  the  world  within  their  grasp. 

For  some  days  after  their  arrival  in  Greece  they  almost  lived 
among  the  ruins.  The  long-coated  guardians  smiled  at  them, 
at  first  with  a  sort  of  faint  amusement,  at  last  with  a  friendly 
pleasure.  And  they  smiled  at  themselves.  Each  evening  they 
said,  "To-morrow  we  will  do  this  —  or  that,"  and  each  morn- 
ing they  said  nothing,  just  looked  at  each  other  after  break- 
fast, read  in  each  other's  eyes  the  repetition  of  desire,  and  set 
out  on  the  dear  dusty  road  with  which  they  were  already  so 
familiar. 

Had  there  ever  before  been  a  honeymoon  bounded  by  the 
precipices  of  the  Acropolis?  They  sometimes  discussed  that 
important  question,  and  always  decided  against  the  imperti- 
nent possibility.  "  What  we  are  doing  has  never  been  done  be- 
fore." Dion  went  further  than  this,  to  "  What  I  am  feeling 
has  never  been  felt  before."  His  youth  asserted  itself  in  silent, 
determined  statements  which  seemed  to  him  to  ring  with  authen- 
tic truth. 

It  was  a  far  cry  from  the  downs  of  Chilton  to  the  summit  of 
the  Acropolis.  Dion  remembered  the  crowd  assembled  to  hear 
"  Elijah  ";  he  felt  the  ugly  heat,  the  press  of  humanity.  And 
all  that  was  but  the  prelude  to  this!  Even  the  voice  crying 
"  Woe  unto  them!  "  had  been  the  prelude  to  the  wonderful  si- 
lence of  Greece.  He  felt  marvelously  changed.  And  Rosa- 
mund often  seemed  to  him  changed,  too,  because  she  was  his 
own.  That  wonderful  fact  gave  her  new  values,  spread  about 
her  new  mysteries.  And  some  of  these  mysteries  Dion  did 
not  attempt  to  fathom  at  first.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  some  si- 
lences of  love  are  like  certain  ceremony  with  a  friend  —  a  mark 
of  the  delicacy  which  is  the  sign-manual  of  the  things  that 
endure.  In  the  beginning  of  that  honeymoon  there  was  a  beau- 


22  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

tiful  restraint  which  was  surely  of  good  augury  for  the  future. 
Not  all  the  doors  were  set  violently  open,  not  all  the  rooms  were 
ruthlessly  visited. 

Dion  found  that  he  was  able  to  reverence  the  woman  who 
had  given  herself  to  him  more  after  he  had  received  the  gift 
than  before.  And  this  was  very  wonderful  to  him,  was  even, 
somehow,  perplexing.  For  Rosamund  had  the  royal  way  of  be- 
stowing. She  was  capable  of  refusal,  but  not  of  half -meas- 
ures or  of  niggardliness.  There  was  something  primitive  in 
her  which  spoke  truth  with  a  voice  that  was  fearless;  and  yet 
that  very  primitiveness  seemed  closely  allied  with  her  purity. 
Dion  only  understood  what  that  purity  was  when  he  was  mar- 
ried to  her.  It  was  like  the  radiant  atmosphere  of  Greece  to 
him.  Had  not  Greece  led  him  to  it,  made  him  desire  it  with  all 
that  was  best  in  his  nature?  Now  he  had  brought  it  to  Greece. 
Actually,  day  after  day,  he  trod  the  Acropolis  with  Rosamund. 

Greece  had  already,  he  believed,  put  out  a  hand  and  drawn 
them  more  closely  together. 

"  Love  me,  love  the  land  I  love." 

Laughingly,  yet  half-anxiously  too,  Dion  had  said  that  to 
Rosamund  when  they  left  Brindisi  and  set  sail  for  Greece. 
With  her  usual  sincerity  she  had  answered: 

"  I  want  to  love  it.  Do  you  wish  me  to  say  more  than  that, 
to  make  promises  I  may  not  be  able  to  keep?  " 

"  No,"  he  had  answered.  "  I  only  want  truth  from  you." 
And  after  a  moment  he  had  added,  "  I  shall  never  want  any- 
thing from  you  but  your  truth." 

She  had  looked  at  him  rather  strangely,  like  one  moved  by 
conflicting  feelings,  and  after  a  slight  hesitation  she  had  said: 

"  Dion,  do  you  realize  all  the  meaning  in  those  words  of 
yours  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Then  if  you  really  mean  them  you  must  be  one  of  the  most 
daring  of  human  beings.  But  I  shall  try  a  compromise  with 
you.  I  shall  try  to  give  you  my  best  truth,  never  my  worst. 
You  deserve  that,  I  think.  Indeed,  I  know  you  do." 

And  he  had  left  it  to  her.  Was  he  not  wise  to  do  that?  Al- 
ready he  trusted  her  absolutely,  as  he  had  never  thought  to  trust 
any  one. 

"  I  could  face  any  storm  with  you,"  he  once  said  to  Rosa- 
mund. 

Rosamund  had  wanted  to  love  Greece,  and  from  the  first 
moment  of  seeing  the  land  she  had  loved  it. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  23 

In  the  beginning  of  their  stay  she  had  scarcely  been  able  to 
believe  that  she  was  really  in  Athens.  A  great  name  had  roused 
in  her  imagination  a  conception  of  a  great  city.  The  soft  fa- 
miliarity, the  almost  rustic  simplicity  and  intimacy,  the  abso- 
lutely unpretentious  brightness  and  homely  cheerfulness  of  the 
small  capital  of  this  unique  land  had  surprised,  had  almost  con- 
fused her. 

"  Is  this  really  Athens?  "  she  had  said,  wondering,  as  they 
had  driven  into  what  seemed  a  village  set  in  bright  bareness, 
sparsely  shaded  here  and  there  by  small  pepper-trees. 

And  the  question  had  persisted  in  her  mind,  had  almost  trem- 
bled upon  her  lips,  for  two  or  three  days.  But  then  had 
come  a  mysterious  change,  brought  about,  perhaps,  by  affec- 
tion. Quickly  she  had  learnt  to  love  Athens,  and  then  she  had 
the  feeling  that  if  it  had  been  in  any  way  different  from  what 
it  was  she  could  not  have  loved  it.  Its  very  smallness  delighted 
her,  and  she  would  not  permit  its  faults  to  be  mentioned  in 
her  presence.  Once,  when  Dion  said  that  it  was  a  great  pity 
the  Athenians  did  not  plant  more  trees,  and  a  greater  pity  they 
so  often  lopped  off  branches  from  the  few  trees  they  had,  she 
exclaimed : 

"  You  mustn't  run  down  my  Athens.  It  likes  to  give  itself 
to  the  sun  generously.  It's  grateful,  as  it  well  may  be,  for  all 
the  sun  has  done  for  it.  Look  at  the  color  of  that  marble." 

And  Dion  looked  at  the  honey  color,  and  the  wonderful  red- 
dish-gold, and,  laughing,  said: 

"  Athens  is  the  one  faultless  city,  and  the  dogs  tell  us  so  every 
night  and  all  night  long." 

"  Dogs  always  bark  when  the  moon  is  up,"  she  answered,  with 
a  semi-humorous  gravity. 

"  As  they  bark  in  Athens?  "  he  queried. 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  If  I  am  ever  criticized,"  he  asked,  "  will  you  be  my  de- 
fender? " 

"  I  shan't  hear  you  criticized." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  I  do  know  it,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  her  honest 
brown  eyes;  "  nobody  will  criticize  you  when  I  am  there." 

He  caught  hold  of  her  hand. 

"And  you?  Don't  you  often  criticize  me  silently?  I'm  sure 
you  do.  Why  did  you  marry  me,  Rosamund?  " 

They  were  sitting  on  the  Acropolis  when  he  put  that  ques- 
tion. It  was  a  shining  day.  The  far-off  seas  gleamed.  There 


24  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

was  a  golden  pathway  to  ^Egina.  The  brilliant  clearness,  not 
European  but  Eastern,  did  not  make  the  great  view  spread  out 
beneath  and  around  them  hard.  Greece  lay  wrapped  in  a  mys- 
tery of  sunlight,  different  from,  yet  scarcely  less  magical  than, 
the  mystery  of  shadows  and  the  moon.  Rosamund  looked  out 
on  the  glory.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  given  her  yel- 
low hair  to  the  sunlight.  Without  any  head-covering  she  al- 
ways looked  more  beautiful,  and,  to  Dion,  more  Greek  than 
when  her  hair  was  concealed.  He  saw  in  her  then  more  clearly 
than  at  other  times  the  woman  of  all  the  ages  rather  than  the 
woman  of  an  epoch  subject  to  certain  fashions.  As  he  looked 
at  her  now,  resting  on  a  block  of  warm  marble  above  the  preci- 
pice which  is  dominated  by  the  little  temple  of  Athena  Nike,  he 
wondered,  with  the  concealed  humility  of  the  great  lover,  how 
it  was  that  she  had  ever  chosen  to  give  herself  to  him.  He  had 
sworn  to  marry  her.  He  had  not  been  weak  in  his  wooing,  had 
not  been  one  of  those  men  who  will  linger  on  indefinitely  at  a 
woman's  feet,  ready  to  submit  to  unnumbered  refusals.  But 
now  there  rose  up  in  the  depths  of  him  the  cry,  "  What  am 
I  ?  "  and  the  answer,  "  Only  a  man  like  thousands  of  other  men, 
in  no  way  remarkable,  in  no  way  more  worthy  than  thousands  of 
others  of  the  gift  of  a  great  happiness." 

Rosamund  turned  from  the  shining  view.  There  was  in  her 
eyes  an  unusual  vagueness. 

"Why  did  you?" 

"  Why  did  I  marry  you,  Dion?  " 

"  Yes.  When  I  found  you  with  your  '  Paradiso '  I  don't 
think  you  meant  ever  to  marry  me." 

"  I  always  liked  you.  But  at  first  I  didn't  think  of  you  in 
that  way." 

"  But  you  had  known  for  ages  before  Burstal " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  I  knew  the  day  I  sang  at  Mr.  Darlington's, 
at  that  party  he  gave  to  introduce  me  as  a  singer.  I  knew  first 
from  your  mother.  She  told  me." 

"My  mother?" 

"  By  the  look  she  gave  me  when  you  introduced  me  to  her." 

"Was  it  an How  d'you  mean?" 

"  I  can  scarcely  explain.  But  it  was  a  look  that  asked  a 
great  many  questions.  And  they  wouldn't  have  been  asked  if 
you  hadn't  cared  for  me,  and  if  she  hadn't  known  it." 

"  What  did  you  think  when  you  knew?  " 

"  That  it  was  kind  of  you  to  care  for  me." 

"Kind?" 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  25 

"  Yes.  I  always  feel  that  about  people  who  like  me  very 
much." 

"  And  did  you  just  go  on  thinking  me  kind  until  that  day 
at  Burstal?" 

"  I  suppose  so.     But  I  felt  very  much  at  home  with  you." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  that's  a  compliment  to  a  man  who's 
still  young,  or  not?  " 

"  Nor  do  I.     But  that's  just  how  it  was." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  little  while.  When  he  spoke  again  it 
was  with  some  hesitation,  and  his  manner  was  almost  diffi- 
dent. 

"  Rosamund,  that  day  at  Burstal,  were  you  at  all  inclined  to 
accept  me?  " 

"  Yes;  I  think,  perhaps,  I  was.     Why?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  have  fancied  there  was  a  moment  when " 

He  looked  at  her  and  then,  for  once,  his  eyes  fell  before  hers 
almost  guiltily.  They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Behind 
them,  on  a  bench  set  in  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  wall,  was  a 
guardian  of  the  Acropolis,  a  thin  brown  man  with  very  large 
ears  sticking  out  from  his  head.  He  had  been  dozing,  but  now 
stirred,  shuffled  his  feet,  and  suddenly  cleared  his  throat  Then 
he  sighed  heavily. 

"  And  if  there  was,  why  did  you  think  it  came,  Dion?  "  said 
Rosamund  suddenly,  with  an  almost  startling  swiftness  of  de- 
cision. 

Dion  reddened. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  to  tell  me?  " 

"  Oh,  well  —  things  go  through  the  mind  without  our  wish- 
ing them  to.  You  must  know  that,  Rosamund.  They  are  often 
like  absurd  little  intruders.  One  kicks  them  out  if  one  can." 

"  What  kind  of  intruder  did  you  kick  out,  or  try  to  kick  out, 
at  Burstal?" 

She  spoke  half-laughingly,  but  half-challengingly. 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

"  Sometimes  I  have  fancied  that  perhaps,  that  day  at  Burstal, 
you  suddenly  realized  that  love  might  be  a  more  powerful  up- 
holder of  life  than  ambition  ever  could  be." 

"  Sometimes  ?  And  you  thought  it  first  on  the  downs,  or  at 
any  rate  after  the  concert?  " 

"  I  think  I  did." 

"  Do  you  realize,"  she  said  slowly,  and  as  if  with  an  effort, 
"  that  you  and  I  have  never  discussed  my  singing  in  '  Elijah  '  ?  " 

"  I  know  we  never  have." 


26  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Let  us  do  it  now,"  she  continued,  still  seeming  to  make  a 
strong  effort. 

"  But  why  should  we?  " 

"  I  want  to.     Didn't  I  sing  well  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  sang  wonderfully  well." 

"Then  what  was  it  that  went  wrong?  I've  never  under- 
stood." 

"  Why  should  you  think  anything  went  wrong  ?  The  crit- 
ics said  it  was  a  remarkable  performance.  You  made  a  great 
effect." 

"  I  believe  I  did.  But  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  day  that 
I  was  out  of  sympathy  with  my  audience.  And  then  " —  she 
paused,  but  presently  added  with  a  certain  dryness  — "  I  was 
never  offered  any  engagement  to  sing  in  oratorio  after  Burstal." 

"  I  believe  a  good  many  people  thought  your  talent  would 
show  at  its  best  in  opera." 

"  I  shall  never  go  on  the  stage.  The  idea  is  hateful  to  me, 
and  always  has  been.  Would  you  like  me  to  sing  on  the 
>tage?" 

"  No." 

"  Dion,  why  don't  you  tell  me  what  happened  that  day  at 
Burstal?" 

"  I  scarcely  could." 

"  I  wish  you  would  try." 

"  Well  —  I  think  it  was  a  mistake  for  you  to  begin  your  pub- 
lic career  in  oratorio  by  singing  '  Woe  unto  them.' ' 

"Why?" 

"  It's  an  unsympathetic  thing.     It's  a  cruel  sort  of  thing." 

"  Cruel?     But  it's  one  of  the  best-known  things  in  oratorio." 

"  You  made  it  quite  new." 

"How?" 

"  It  sounded  fanatical  when  you  sang  it.  I  never  heard  it 
sound  like  that  before." 

"  Fanatical  ?  "  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  rather  cold. 

"  Rosamund,"  he  said,  quickly  and  anxiously,  "  you  asked  me 
to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  meant,  what  I  felt,  that  is " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Go  on,  Dion.  Well  ?  It  sounded  fanat- 
ical   " 

"  To  me.  I'm  only  telling  you  my  impression.  When  I've 
heard  '  Woe  unto  them '  before  it  has  always  sounded  sad, 
piteous  if  you  like,  a  sort  of  wailing.  When  you  sang  it,  some- 
how it  was  like  a  curse,  a  tremendous  summoning  of  ven- 
geance." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  27 

"  Why  not  ?  Are  not  the  words  '  Destruction  shall  fall  upon 
them'?" 

"  I  know.  But  you  made  it  sound  —  to  me,  I  mean  —  al- 
most as  if  you  were  rejoicing  personally  at  the  thought  of  the 
destruction,  as  if  you  were  longing  almost  eagerly  for  it  to  over- 
whelm the  faithless." 

"  I  see.     That  is  what  you  meant  by  fanatical?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

After  a  long  pause  she  said: 

"  Nobody  has  told  me  that  till  now." 

"  Perhaps  others  didn't  feel  it  as  I  did." 

"  I  don't  know.  What  does  one  know  about  other  people? 
Not  even  my  guardian  said  anything.  I  never  could  under- 
stand   " 

She  broke  off,  then  continued  steadily: 

"  So  you  think  I  repelled  people  that  day?  " 

"  It  seems  impossible  that  you " 

But  she  interrupted  him. 

"  No,  Dion,  it  isn't  at  all  impossible.  I  think  if  we  are  abso- 
lutely sincere  we  repel  people  very  often." 

"  But  you  are  the  most  sincere  person  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
you  must  know  how  beloved  you  are,  how  popular  you  are  wher- 
ever you  go." 

"  When  I'm  being  sincere  with  the  part  of  me  that's  feeling 
kind  or  affectionate.  Let  us  go  to  the  Parthenon." 

She  got  up,  opened  her  white  sun-umbrella  and  turned  round, 
keeping  her  hat  in  her  left  hand.  As  she  stood  there  in  that 
setting  of  marble,  with  the  sun  caught  in  her  hair,  and  the 
mighty  view  below  and  beyond  her,  she  looked  wonderfully 
beautiful,  Dion  thought,  but  almost  stern.  He  feared  perhaps 
he  had  hurt  her.  But  was  it  his  fault?  She  had  told  him  to 
speak. 

Rosamund  did  not  return  to  the  subject  of  her  debut  at 
Burstal,  but  in  the  late  afternoon  of  that  day  she  spoke  of  her 
singing,  and  of  the  place  it  might  have  in  their  married  life. 
Dion  believed  she  did  this  because  of  their  conversation  near  the 
Temple  of  Nike. 

They  had  spent  most  of  the  day  on  the  Acropolis.  Both  had 
brought  books:  she,  Mahaffy's  "  History  of  Greek  Literature  "; 
he,  a  volume  of  poems  written  by  a  young  diplomat  who  loved 
Greece  and  knew  her  well.  Neither  of  them  had  read  many 
pages,  but  as  the  strong  radiance  began  to  soften  about  them  on 
the  height,  and  the  breeze  from  the  Saronic  Gulf  came  to  them 


28  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

with  a  more  feathery  warmth  and  freshness  over  the  smiling 
bareness  of  the  Attic  Plain,  Dion,  who  had  been  half-dreamily 
turning  the  leaves  of  his  little  book,  said: 

"  Rosamund." 

"Yes?" 

"  Look  at  the  sea  and  the  mountains  of  Trigania,  those  far- 
off  mountains  "- — he  pointed — "  and  the  outpost  of  Hydra." 

She  looked  and  said  nothing.  Then  he  read  to  her  these 
lines  of  the  young  diplomat-poet: 

"  A  crescent  sail  upon  the  sea, 
So  cairn  and  fair  and  ripple  free 
You  wonder  storms  can  ever  be ; 

A  shore  with  deep  indented  bays, 
And  o'er  the  gleaming  water-ways 
A  glimpse  of  Islands  in  the  haze; 

A  face  bronzed  dark  to  red  and  gold, 
With  mountain  eyes  that  seem  to  hold 
The  freshness  of  the  world  of  old; 

A  shepherd's  crook,  a  coat  of  fleece, 
A  grazing  flock; — the  sense  of  peace, 
The  long  sweet  silence, —  this  is  Greece !  " 

Rosamund  gazed  before  her  at  Greece  in  the  evening  light. 

"  '  The  freshness  of  the  world  of  old,'  "  she  repeated,  and 
her  voice  had  a  thrill  in  it.  "  '  The  sense  of  peace,  the  long 
sweet  silence, —  this  is  Greece.'  If  there  was  music  with  the 
music  of  those  words  I  should  love  to  sing  them." 

"  And  how  you  could  sing  them.     Like  no  other." 

"  At  any  rate  my  heart  would  be  in  them.  '  The  freshness 
of  the  world  of  old  —  the  sense  of  peace,  the  long  sweet  si- 
lence.' " 

She  was  standing  now  near  the  edge  of  the  sacred  rock,  look- 
ing out  over  the  tawny  plain  flanked  by  gray  Hymettos,  and 
away  to  the  sea.  There  were  no  voices  rising  from  below. 
There  was  no  sound  of  traffic  on  the  white  road  which  wound 
away  down  the  slope  to  the  hidden  city.  Her  contralto  voice 
lingered  on  the  words;  her  lips  drew  them  out  softly,  lengthen- 
ing the  sounds  they  loved. 

"  Freshness,  that  which  belonged  to  the  early  world,  long 
sweet  silence,  peace.  Oh,  Dion,  if  you  knew  how  something  in 
me  cares  for  freshness  and  for  peace!  " 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  29 

Her  glad  energies  were  strangely  stilled;  yet  there  was  a 
kind  of  force  in  her  stillness,  the  force  that  is  in  all  deep  truths 
of  whatever  nature  they  may  be.  He  felt  that  he  was  near  to 
perhaps  the  most  essential  part  of  her,  to  that  which  was  per- 
haps more  truly  her  than  even  the  radiant  and  buoyant  human- 
ity by  means  of  which  she  drew  people  to  her. 

"  Could  you  live  always  out  of  the  world?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  out  of  the  world." 

"Away  from  people  —  with  me?" 

"With  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  almost  as  if  startled.  Then 
there  came  into  her  brown  eyes  a  scrutiny  that  seemed  half-in- 
ward, as  if  it  were  partially  applied  to  herself. 

"  It's  difficult  to  be  certain  what  one  could  do.  I  suppose 
one  has  several  sides." 

"  Ah !     And  your  singing  side  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  speak  about  that." 

Her  voice  was  suddenly  more  practical,  and  her  whole  look 
and  manner  changed,  losing  in  romance  and  strangeness,  gain- 
ing in  directness  and  energy. 

"  We've  never  discussed  it." 

She  sat  down  on  a  slab  of  rock  at  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
and  went  on: 

"  You  don't  mind  your  wife  being  a  public  singer,  do  you, 
Dion?" 

"Suppose  I  do?" 

"Do  you?" 

"  You're  so  energetic  I  doubt  if  you  could  be  happy  in  idle- 
ness." 

"  I  couldn't  in  England." 

"And  in  Greece?  But  we  are  only  here  for  such  a  short 
time." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Learning  the  lessons  of  happiness." 

"  Good  lessons  for  us!  "  she  said,  smiling. 

"  The  best  there  are.  I  believe  in  the  education  of  joy.  It 
opens  the  heart,  calls  up  all  the  generous  things.  But  your 
singing;  can  I  bear  your  traveling  about  perpetually  all  over 
England?" 

"  If  I  get  engagements." 

"  You  will.  You  had  a  good  many  for  concerts  last  winter. 
You've  got  several  for  June  and  July.  You'll  get  many  more. 
But  who's  to  go  with  you  on  your  travels?  " 


30  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Beattie,  of  course.     Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  " 

"  How  do  we  know  Beatrice  won't  marry?  " 

Rosamund  looked  grave. 

"  Why  shouldn't  she?  "  asked  Dion. 

"  She  jnay,  of  course." 

"  D'you  think  she'll  remain  your  apanage  now?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  hint  of  smiling  sarcasm  that  could  not  hurt  her. 

"  My  apanage  ?  " 

"  Hasn't  she  been  something  like  that?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  has.  But  Beattie  always  sinks  herself  in 
others.  She  wouldn't  be  happy  if  she  didn't  do  that.  Of 
course,  your  friend  Guy  Daventry's  in  love  with  Beattie." 

"  Deeply." 

"  But  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  Beattie " 

She  paused  abruptly.     After  a  moment  she  continued: 

"  You  asked  me  to-day  why  I  married  you.  I  didn't  an- 
swer you,  and  I'm  not  going  to  answer  you  now  —  entirely. 
But  you're  not  like  other  men,  most  other  men." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  A  way  that  means  very  much  to  me,"  she  answered,  with 
a  delicious  purity  and  directness.  "  Women  feel  such  things 
very  soon  when  they  know  men.  I  could  easily  have  never 
married,  but  I  could  never,  never  have  married  a  man  who  had 
lived  as  I  believe  most  men  have  lived." 

"  I  think  I  always  knew  that  from  the  first  moment  I  saw 
you." 

"  Did  you  ?  I'm  glad.  I  care  tremendously  for  that  in  you, 
Dion  —  more  than  you  will  ever  know." 

"  That's  my  great,  too  great  reward,"  he  said  soberly,  almost 
with  a  touch  of  deep  awe.  Then,  reddening  and  looking  away, 
he  added,  "  You  were  the  very  first." 

"Was  I?" 

"  Yes,  but  —  but  you  mustn't  think  that  it  was  religious  feel- 
ing, anything  of  that  kind,  which  kept  me  back  from  —  from 
certain  things.  It  was  more  the  desire  to  be  strong,  healthy, 
to  have  the  sane  mind  in  the  sane  body,  I  think.  I  was  mad 
about  athletics,  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Anyhow,  you  know  now. 
You  were  the  first.  You  will  be  the  only  one  in  my  life." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  Then  Rosamund 
said,  with  a  change  of  manner  to  practical  briskness: 

"  If  Beattie  ever  should  marry,  I  could  take  a  maid  about 
with  me." 

"  Yes.     An  hotel  in  Liverpool  with  a  maid !     In  Blackpool, 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  31 

in  Huddersfield,  in  Wolverhampton,  in  Glasgow,  when  there's 
a  heavy  thaw  on,  with  a  maid!  Oh,  how  delightful  it  will  be! 
Manchester  on  a  wet  day  in  early  spring  with  a " 

"  Hush!  "  she  put  one  hand  on  his  lips  gently,  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  sort  of  smiling  challenge  in  her  eyes.  "  Do  you 
mean  to  forbid  me?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  forbid  you  to  do  anything." 

"  We  shall  see  in  England." 

"  But,  Rosamund  " —  there  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  he 
slipped  one  arm  round  her  — "  if  something  came  to  fill  your 
life,  both  our  lives,  to  the  brim?  " 

"  Ah,  then," —  a  very  remote  expression  came  into  her  eyes, — 
"  then  it  would  all  be  different." 

"All?" 

"  Yes.     Everything  would  be  quite  different  then." 

"  Not  our  relation  to  each  other?  " 

"  Yes,  even  that.     Perhaps  that  most  of  all." 

"I  —  I  hardly  like  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  said,  struggling 
against  a  perhaps  stupid,  or  even  hateful,  feeling  of  depression 
mingled  with  something  else. 

"  But  wouldn't  it?     Think!  " 

"  I  don't  want  that  to  change.  I  should  hate  any  change  in 
that." 

"  What  we  want,  and  what  we  hate,  doesn't  affect  what  has 
to  be.  And  I  expect  at  the  end  we  shall  be  thankful  for  that. 
But,  Dion,  yes,  if  what  you  say,  I  could  give  it  all  up.  Public 
singing!  What  would  it  matter  then?  I'm  a  woman,  not  a 
singer.  But  perhaps  it  will  never  come." 

"Who  knows?"  he  said. 

And  he  sighed. 

She  turned  towards  him,  leaned  one  hand  on  the  stone  and 
looked  at  him  almost  anxiously. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Dion?  " 

"Why?     There  is  nothing  the  matter." 

"  Would  you  rather  we  never  had  that  in  our  lives?  " 

"A  child?" 

"  Yes,  a  child." 

"  I  thought  I  longed  for  that,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  changed  and  don't  long  any 
more?  " 

"  I  suppose  it's  like  this.  When  a  man's  very  happy,  per- 
fectly happy,  he  doesn't  —  perhaps  he  can't  —  want  any  change 
to  come.  If  you're  perfectly  happy  instinctively  you  almost  fear 


32  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

any  change.  Till  to-day,  till  this  very  minute  perhaps,  I 
thought  I  wanted  to  have  a  child  —  some  day.  Perhaps  I  still 
do  really,  or  perhaps  I  shall.  But  —  you  must  forgive  me,  I 
can't  help  it!  —  this  evening,  sitting  here,  I  don't  want  any- 
thing to  come  between  us.  It  seems  to  me  that  even  a  child  of 
ours  would  take  some  of  you  away  from  me.  Don't  you  see 
that?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  That's  a  man's  feeling.     I  can't  share  it." 

"  But  think  —  all  the  attention  you  would  have  to  give  to  a 
child,  all  the  thoughts  you  would  fasten  on  it,  all  the  anxieties 
you'd  have  about  it!  " 

"Well?" 

"  One  only  has  a  certain  amount  of  time.  You'd  have  to  take 
away  a  good  deal,  a  great  deal,  of  the  time  you  can  now  give 
to  me.  Oh,  it  sounds  too  beastly,  I  know!  Perhaps  I  scarcely 
mean  it !  But  surely  you  can  see  how  a  man  who  loves  a  woman 
very  much  might,  without  being  the  least  bit  unnatural,  think, 
'  I'd  like  to  keep  every  bit  of  her  for  myself.  I'd  like  to  have 
her  all  to  myself !  '  I  dare  say  this  feeling  will  pass.  Remem- 
ber, Rose,  we're  only  just  married,  and  we're  in  Greece,  right 
away  from  every  one.  Don't  think  me  morbidly  jealous,  or  a 
beast.  I'm  not.  I  expect  lots  of  men  have  felt  as  I  do,  per- 
haps even  till  the  first  child  came." 

"  Ah,  then  it  would  be  all  right,"  she  said.  "  The  natural 
things,  the  things  nature  intends,  are  always  all  right." 

"  How  blessedly  sane  and  central  you  are!  " 

"If  we  had  a  child  —  Dion,  you  must  believe  me! — we 
should  be  drawn  ever  so  much  nearer  together  by  it.  If  we  ever 
do  have  one,  we  shall  look  back  on  this  time  —  you  will  —  and 
think  '  We  were  much  farther  apart  then  than  we  are  now.'  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  said  gravely,  almost 
with  pain. 

Could  a  woman  like  Rosamund  be  driven  by  an  instinct 
blindly?  She  was  such  a  perfect  type  of  womanhood.  It 
would  be  almost  a  tragedy  if  she  —  such  a  woman  —  died  child- 
less. Perhaps  instinct  had  obscurely  warned  her  of  that,  had 
taught  her  where  to  look  for  a  mate.  He,  Dion,  had  always 
lived  purely.  That  day  she  had  acknowledged  that  she  had 
divined  it.  Was  that,  perhaps,  her  real,  her  instinctive  reason 
for  marrying  him?  But  a  man  wants  to  be  married  for  one 
thing  only,  because  the  woman  longs  for  him.  And  Dion  was 
just  an  ordinary  man  with  very  strong  feelings. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  33 

"  Let's  take  one  more  stroll  before  we  go  down,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  to  the  maidens,"  she  answered. 

Her  voice  sounded  relieved.  She  pushed  her  arm  gently 
through  his  as  they  moved  away,  and  he  felt  all  his  body  thrill. 
The  mystery  of  love  was  almost  painful  to  him  at  that  moment. 
He  realized  that  a  great  love  might  grow  to  have  an  affinity  with 
a  disease.  "  I  must  be  careful.  I  must  take  great  care  with 
this  love  of  mine,"  he  thought. 

They  went  slowly  over  the  slabs  of  marble  and  the  gray  rocks 
and  passed  before  the  west  front  of  the  Parthenon.  Dion  felt 
slight  resistance  in  Rosamund's  arm,  and  stopped.  In  the 
changing  light  the  marble  was  full  of  warm  color,  was  in  places 
mysterious  and  translucent  almost  as  amber.  The  immense 
power,  the  gigantic  calm  of  the  temple,  a  sort  of  still  breathing 
of  Eternity  upon  Time,  confronted  a  glory  which  was  begin- 
ning to  change  in  the  face  of  its  changelessness.  Soon  the  seas 
that  held  their  dream  under  the  precipices  of  Sunion,  and  along 
the  shores  of  ^Egina,  where  the  tall  shepherd  boys  in  their 
fleeces  of  white  lead  home  the  flocks  in  the  twilight,  would  lose 
the  wonder  of  their  shining,  and  the  skies  the  rapture  of  their 
diffused  light.  In  the  quietly  austere  Attic  Plain,  through  the 
whispering  groves  of  Academe,  and  along  the  sacred  way  to 
Eleusis,  a  very  delicate  vagueness  was  beginning  to  travel,  like 
a  wanderer  setting  forth  to  greet  the  coming  of  the  night.  The 
ranges  of  hills  and  mountains,  Hymettos  and  Pentelicus,  Parnes 
stretching  to  the  far  distance,  Mount  Corydallus,  the  peak  of 
Salamis,  the  exquisitely  long  mountains  of  Trigania  — "  the 
greyhounds  of  their  tribe,"  Rosamund  loved  to  call  them  — 
were  changing  almost  from  moment  to  moment,  becoming  a 
little  softer,  a  little  more  tender,  putting  off  their  distinct  hues 
of  the  day  for  the  colors  of  sleep  and  forgetting.  But  the  great 
Doric  columns  fronting  them,  the  core  of  the  heart  of  this 
evening  splendor,  seemed  not  to  defy,  but  to  ignore,  all  the 
processes  of  change.  In  its  ruin  the  Parthenon  seemed  to  say, 
"  I  have  not  changed."  And  it  was  true.  For  the  same  soul 
which  had  confronted  Pericles  confronted  the  two  lovers  who 
now  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  temple. 

"  I  wonder  how  many  thousands  of  people  of  all  nations  have 
learnt  the  same  lesson  here,"  Rosamund  said  at  last. 

"  The  Doric  lesson,  you  mean?  " 

"  Yes,  of  strength,  simplicity,  endurance,  calmness." 

"  And  I  wonder  how  many  thousands  have  forgotten  the  les- 
son." 


34  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  Dion?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Great  art  is  a  moral  teacher,  I'm  sure  of 
that.  But  men  are  very  light-minded  as  a  rule,  I  think.  If 
they  lived  before  these  columns  they  might  learn  a  great  deal, 
they  might  even  develop  in  a  splendid  direction,  I  believe.  But 
an  hour,  even  a  few  hours,  is  that  enough?  Impressions  fade 
very  quickly  in  most  people." 

"  Not  in  you.  You  never  forgot  the  Parthenon,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  it." 

She  stood  for  some  minutes  quite  still  gazing  steadily  up  at 
the  temple,  gaining  —  it  seemed  to  her  —  her  own  stillness  from 
its  tremendous  immobility. 

"  The  greatest  strength  is  in  silence,"  she  thought.  "  The 
greatest  power  is  in  motionlessness." 

She  thought  of  the  raging  of  the  great  sea.  But  no!  There 
was  more  of  the  essence  of  strength,  of  the  stern  inwardness  of 
power,  in  that  which  confronted  life  and  Time  in  absolute  still- 
ness: in  a  mountain,  in  this  temple.  And  the  temple  spoke  to 
something  far  down  within  her;  to  something  which  desired 
long  silences  and  deep  retirement,  to  something  mystic  which 
was  sometimes  like  a  creeping  hunger  within  her,  and  which 
she  did  not  understand.  The  temple  was  Pagan  and  she  knew 
that.  But  that  in  her  to  which  it  spoke  was  not  Pagan.  Be- 
fore she  left  Athens  she  learnt  to  realize  that  the  soul  of  man, 
when  it  speaks  through  mighty  and  pure  effort,  of  whatever 
kind,  always  speaks  to  the  same  Listener,  to  but  one,  though 
man  may  not  know  it. 

"  Doric!  "  she  said  at  last.  "  I  have  always  known  that  for 
me  that  would  be  the  greatest.  The  simplest  thing  is  the  most 
sublime  thing.  That  temple  is  like  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
to  me.  Didn't  you  bring  me  here  because  it  meant  so  much  to 
you?" 

"  Not  entirely.  No,  Rosamund,  I  think  I  brought  you  here 
because  I  felt  that  you  belonged  here." 

"  This  satisfies  me." 

She  sighed  deeply,  still  gazing  at  the  temple. 

"  You  aren't  only  in  Greece,  you  are  of  Greece.  Come  to  the 
maidens." 

As  they  went  on  slowly  the  acid  voices  of  the  little  birds  which 
fly  perpetually  among  the  columns  of  the  Parthenon  followed 
them,  bidding  them  good  night. 

They  descended  over  the  uneven  ground  and  came  to  the  fa- 
mous Porch  of  the  Caryatides,  jutting  out  from  the  little  Ionic 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  35 

temple  which  is  the  handmaid  of  the  Parthenon.  Not  far  from 
the  Porch,  and  immediately  before  it,  was  a  wooden  bench.  Al- 
ready Rosamund  and  Dion  had  spent  many  hours  here,  some- 
times sitting  on  the  bench,  more  often  resting  on  the  warm 
ground  in  the  sunshine,  among  the  fragments  of  ruin  and  the 
speary,  silver-green  grasses.  Now  Rosamund  sat  down  and 
Dion  stood  by  her  side. 

"  Rosamund,  those  maidens  are  my  ideal  of  womanhood 
shown  in  marble,"  he  said. 

"  They  are  almost  miraculously  beautiful.  And  one  scarcely 
knows  why.  But  I  know  that  every  time  I  see  them  the  mys- 
tery of  their  beauty  seems  more  ineffable  to  me,  and  the  mean- 
ing of  it  seems  more  profound.  How  did  men  get  so  much 
meaning  into  marble?  " 

"  By  caring  so  much  for  what  is  beautiful  in  womanhood,  I 
suppose." 

He  sat  down  close  beside  her. 

"  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  women  have  any  idea  what 
some  men,  many  men,  I  believe,  seek  in  women." 

"What  do  they  seek?" 

"  What  do  those  maidens  that  hold  up  the  Porch  suggest  to 
you?" 

"  All  that's  calm  without  a  touch  of  coldness,  and  strong  with- 
out a  touch  of  hardness,  and  noble  without  a  touch  of  pride,  and 
obedient  without  a  touch  of  servility." 

"  Brave  sweetness,  too,  and  protectiveness.  They  are  won- 
derful, and  so  are  some  women.  When  I  saw  you  in  the  omni- 
bus at  Milan  I  thought  of  these  maidens  immediately." 

"How  strange!  " 

"Why  strange?" 

"  Isn't  it  ?  "  she  said,  gazing  at  the  six  maidens  in  their  flow- 
ing draperies  of  marble,  who,  upon  their  uncovered  heads,  bore 
tranquillity  up  the  marble  architrave.  "  How  wonderfully  sim- 
ple and  unpretending  they  are!  " 

"Are  not  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  believe  I  think  about  it." 

"  I  do.  Rosamund,  sometimes  I  feel  that  I  am  an  unique 
man  —  just  think  of  a  fellow  in  a  firm  on  the  Stock  Exchange 
being  unique!  —  because  I  have  had  an  ideal,  and  I  have  at- 
tained to  it.  When  I  was  here  alone,  I  conceived  for  the  first 
time  an  ideal  of  woman.  I  said  to  myself,  '  In  the  days  of  an- 
cient Greece  there  must  have  been  such  women  in  the  flesh  as 
these  maidens  in  marble.  If  I  could  have  lived  and  loved 


36  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

then!  '  And  I  came  away  from  Greece  carrying  a  sort  of  ro- 
mantic dream  with  me.  And  now  I  sit  here  with  you;  I  can't 
think  why  I,  a  quite  ordinary  man,  should  be  picked  out  for 
perfect  happiness." 

"  Is  it  really  perfect?  "  she  asked,  turning  to  him. 

"  I  think  so.     In  such  a  place  with  you!  " 

As  the  evening  drew  on,  a  little  wind  came  and  went  over 
the  rocky  height,  but  it  had  no  breath  of  cold  in  it.  Two  Greek 
soldiers  passed  by  slowly  behind  them  —  short  young  men  with 
skins  almost  as  dark  as  the  skins  of  Arabs  of  the  South,  black 
eyes  and  faces  full  of  active  mentality.  They  were  talking 
eagerly,  but  stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  at  the  English,  and 
beyond  them  at  the  six  maidens  on  their  platform  of  marble. 
Then  they  went  on,  talking  again,  but  presently  hesitated,  came 
back,  and  stood  not  far  off,  gazing  at  the  Porch  with  a  mixture 
of  reverence  and  quiet  wistfulness.  Dion  drew  Rosamund's  at- 
tention to  them. 

"  They  feel  the  beauty,"  he  said. 

"Yes.     I  like  that." 

She  looked  at  the  two  young  men  with  a  smile.  One  of  them 
noticed  it,  and  smiled  back  at  her  almost  boyishly,  and  with  a 
sort  of  confidential  simplicity. 

The  light  began  to  fail.  The  six  maidens  were  less  clearly 
seen,  but  the  deep  meaning  of  them  did  not  lessen.  In  the  gath- 
ering darkness  they  and  their  sweet  effort  became  more  touching, 
more  lovable.  Their  persistence  was  exquisite  now  that  they 
confronted  with  serenity  the  night. 

"  They  are  beautiful  by  day,  but  at  night  they  are  adorable," 
said  Rosamund. 

"  Don't  you  know  why  I  thought  of  them  when  I  met  you  ?  " 
he  whispered. 

She  got  up  slowly.  The  Greek  soldiers  moved,  turned,  and 
went  down  the  slope  towards  the  Propylae.  Their  quick  voices 
were  heard  again.  Then  there  was  the  sound  of  a  bell. 

"  Time  to  go,"  said  Rosamund. 

As  they  followed  the  soldiers  she  again  put  her  arm  through 
her  young  husband's. 

"  Dion,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I'm  a  little  afraid  of  your  ideals. 
I  understand  them.  I  have  ideals  too.  But  I  think  perhaps 
mine  are  less  in  danger  of  ever  being  shattered  than  yours  are." 

"  Why?     But  I  know  mine  are  not  in  danger." 

"  How  can  you  say  that?  " 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  frighten  me.     But  what  about  your 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  37 

ideals?  What  is  the  nature  of  the  difference  between  yours 
and  mine,  which  makes  yours  so  much  less  vulnerable  than 
mine?  " 

But  she  only  said : 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could  explain  it.  But  I  feel  it,  and  I 
shall  go  on  feeling  it." 

They  went  down  the  steep  marble  steps,  gave  the  guardian 
at  the  foot  of  them  good  night,  and  walked  almost  in  silence  to 
Athens. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTER  that  day  Rosamund  and  Dion  often  talked  of 
the  child  who  might  eventually  come  into  their  lives  to 
change  them.  Rosamund  indeed,  now  that  such  a  pos- 
sibility had  been  discussed  between  them,  returned  to  it  with 
an  eagerness  which  she  did  not  seek  to  conceal.  She  was  won- 
derfully frank,  and  her  frankness  seemed  to  belong  naturally 
to  her  transparent  purity,  to  be  an  essential  part  of  it  Dion's 
momentary  depression  that  evening  on  the  Acropolis  had  evi- 
dently stirred  something  in  her  which  would  not  let  her  rest  un- 
til it  had  expressed  itself.  She  had  detected  for  the  first  time  in 
her  husband  a  hint  of  something  connected  with  his  love  for  her 
which  seemed  to  her  morbid.  She  could  not  forget  it  and  she 
was  resolved  to  destroy  it  if  possible.  When  they  next  stood 
together  on  their  beloved  height  she  said  to  him: 

"  Dion,  don't  you  hate  anything  morbid  ?  " 

"  Yes,  loathe  it !  "  he  answered,  with  hearty  conviction. 
"  But  surely  you  know  that.  Why  d'you  ask  me  such  a  thing  ? 
How  dare  you?  " 

And  he  turned  to  her  his  brown  face,  bright  this  morning  with 
good  spirits,  his  dark  eyes  sparkling  with  hopefulness  and 
energy. 

It  was  a  pale  morning,  such  as  often  comes  to  Athens  even 
at  the  edge  of  the  summer.  They  were  standing  on  the  little 
terrace  near  to  the  Acropolis  Museum,  looking  down  over  the 
city  and  to  helmet-shaped  Lycabettos.  The  wind,  too  fond  of 
the  Attic  Plain,  was  blowing,  not  wildly,  but  with  sufficient 
force  to  send  the  dust  whirling  in  light  clouds  over  the  pale 


38  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

houses  and  the  little  Byzantine  churches.  Long  and  narrow 
rivulets  of  dust  marked  the  positions  of  the  few  roads  which 
stretched  out  along  the  plain.  The  darkness  of  the  groves 
which  sheltered  the  course  of  the  Kephisos  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  flying  pallors  and  seemed  at  enmity  with  them.  The 
sky  was  milky  white  and  gray,  broken  up  in  places  by  clouds 
of  fantastic  shapes,  along  the  ruffled  edges  of  which  ran  thin 
gleams  of  sunshine  like  things  half  timorous  and  ashamed. 
Upon  the  flat  shores  near  Phaleron  the  purple  seas  broke  in 
spray,  and  the  salty  drops  were  caught  up  by  the  wind  and 
mingled  with  the  hurrying  grains  of  dust.  It  was  not  exactly 
a  sad  day,  but  there  was  an  uneasiness  abroad.  The  delicate 
calm  of  Greece  was  disturbed.  Nevertheless  Dion  was  feeling 
gay  and  light-hearted,  inclined  to  enjoy  everything  the  world 
about  him  offered  to  him.  Even  the  restlessness  beneath  and 
around  them  accorded  with  his  springing  spirits.  The  whirl- 
ing spirals  of  dust  suggested  to  him  the  gaiety  of  a  dance.  The 
voice  of  the  wind  was  a  joyous  music  in  his  ears. 

"How  dare  you?"  he  repeated  with  a  happy  pretense  of 
indignation. 

"  Because  I  think  you  were  almost  morbid  yesterday." 

"I?     When?" 

"  When  we  spoke  of  the  possibility  of  our  some  day  having  a 
child." 

"  I  had  a  moment  of  thinking  that  too,"  he  agreed.  "  Yes, 
Rose,  the  thought  went  through  my  mind  that  a  great  love,  such 
as  mine  for  you,  might  become  almost  a  disease  if  one  didn't 
watch  it,  hold  it  in." 

"If  it  ever  did  become  like  that,  do  you  know  what  would 
happen  ?  " 

"What,  Rose?" 

"  Instead  of  rejoicing  in  it  I  should  shrink  from  it." 

"  That's  enough  for  me !  " 

He  spoke  gaily,  confidently. 

"  Besides,  I  don't  really  believe  I'm  a  man  to  love  like  that. 
I  only  imagined  I  might  for  a  moment,  perhaps  because  it  was 
twilight.  Imaginings  come  with  the  twilight." 

"  I  could  never  bear  to  think,  if  a  child  came,  that  you  didn't 
want  it,  that  you  wished  it  out  of  the  way." 

"  I  never  should.  But  I  expect  lots  of  young  married  people 
have  queer  thoughts  and  feelings  which  they  keep  entirely  to 
themselves  —  I  blurted  mine  out.  You've  got  a  dangerously 
sincere  husband,  Rose.  The  whole  matter  lies  in  your  own 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  39 

hands.  If  we  ever  have  a  child,  love  it,  but  don't  love  it  more 
than  me." 

"  I  should  love  it  so  differently!  How  could  maternal  love 
interfere  with  the  love  of  woman  for  man?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  it  could." 

"Of  course  it  never  could." 

"  Then  that's  settled.  Where  shall  we  go  to  get  out  of  the 
wind?  It  seems  to  be  rising." 

After  searching  for  a  place  of  shelter  in  vain  they  eventually 
took  refuge  in  the  Parthenon,  under  the  shadow  of  the  great 
western  wall.  Perhaps  in  consequence  of  the  wind  the  Acrop- 
olis was  entirely  deserted.  Only  the  guardians  were  hidden 
somewhere,  behind  columns,  in  the  Porch  of  the  Museum,  under 
the  roof  of  their  little  dwelling  at  the  foot  of  the  marble  stair- 
case which  leads  up  to  the  Propyla?.  The  huge  wall  of  the 
Parthenon  kept  off  the  wind  from  the  sea,  and  as  Rosamund 
and  Dion  no  longer  saw  the  whirling  dust  clouds  in  the  plain 
they  had,  for  the  moment,  almost  an  illusion  of  peace.  They 
sat  down  on  the  guardian's  bench,  just  underneath  some  faint 
fragments  of  paintings  which  dated  from  the  time  when  the 
temple  was  made  use  of  as  a  church  by  Greek  Christians;  and 
immediately  Rosamund  went  on  talking  about  the  child.  She 
spoke  very  quietly  and  earnestly,  with  the  greatest  simplicity, 
and  by  degrees  Dion  came  to  see  her  as  a  mother,  to  feel  that 
perhaps  only  as  a  mother  could  she  fulfil  herself.  The  whole 
of  her  beauty  would  never  be  revealed  unless  she  were  seen 
with  a  child  of  her  own.  Hitherto  he  had  thought  of  her  chiefly 
in  relation  to  himself,  as  the  girl  he  longed  to  win,  then  as  the 
girl  he  most  wonderfully  had  succeeded  in  winning.  She  put 
herself  before  him  now  in  a  different  light,  and  he  saw  in  her 
new  and  beautiful  possibilities.  While  she  was  talking  his 
imagination  began  to  play  about  the  child,  and  presently  he 
realized  that  he  was  thinking  of  it  as  a  boy.  Then,  in  a  mo- 
ment, he  realized  that  on  the  previous  evening  he  had  thought 
of  a  male,  not  of  a  female  child.  With  this  in  his  mind  he 
said  abruptly: 

"  What  sort  of  a  child  do  you  wish  to  have,  Rosamund  ?  " 

"What  sort?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  surprise  in 
her  brown  eyes. 

"  Yes." 

"What  do  you  mean?  A  beautiful,  strong,  healthy  child, 
of  course,  the  sort  of  child  every  married  woman  longs  to  have, 
and  imagines  having  till  it  comes." 


40  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Beautiful,  strong,  healthy!"  he  repeated,  returning  her 
look.  "  Of  course  ir  could  only  be  that  —  your  child.  But  I 
meant,  do  you  want  it  to  be  a  boy  or  a  girl?  " 

"Oh!" 

She  paused,  and  looked  away  from  him  and  down  at  the 
uncemented  marble  blocks  which  form  the  pavement  of  the 
Parthenon. 

"  Well?  "  he  said,  as  she  kept  silence. 

"  If  it  were  to  be  a  girl  I  should  love  it." 

"  You  wish  it  to  be  a  girl?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  that.  The  fact  is,  Dion  " —  and  now  she 
again  looked  at  him,  "  I  have  always  thought  of  our  child  as 
a  boy.  That's  why  your  question  almost  startled  me.  I  have 
never  even  once  thought  of  having  a  girl.  I  don't  know  why." 

"  I  think  I  do." 

"Why  then?" 

"  The  thought  was  born  of  the  desire.  You  wanted  our 
child  to  be  a  son  and  so  you  thought  of  it  as  a  son." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  it." 

"Wasn't  it?" 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  pressure.  She  remained  silent  for 
a  moment,  and  two  little  vertical  lines  appeared  in  her  fore- 
head. Then  she  said: 

"  Yes,  I  believe  it  was.     And  you?  " 

"  I  confess  that  when  yesterday  we  spoke  of  a  child  I  was 
thinking  all  the  time  about  a  boy." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  something  visionary  in  her  eyes,  which 
made  them  look  for  a  moment  like  the  eyes  of  a  woman  whom 
he  had  not  seen  till  now.  Then  she  said  quietly: 

"  It  v;ll  be  a  boy,  I  think.  Indeed,  if  it  weren't  perhaps 
absurd,  I  should  say  that  I  know  it  will  be  a  boy." 

He  said  nothing  more  just  then,  but  at  that  moment  he  felt 
as  if  he,  too,  knew,  not  merely  hoped,  or  guessed,  something 
about  their  joint  future,  knew  in  the  depths  of  him  that  a  boy- 
child  would  some  day  be  sent  to  Rosamund  and  to  him,  to 
influence  and  to  change  their  lives. 

The  wind  began  to  fail  almost  suddenly,  the  sky  grew 
brighter,  a  shaft  of  sun  lay  on  the  marble  at  their  feet. 

"  It's  going  to  be  fine,"  Dion  said.  "  Let's  be  active  for 
once.  The  wind  has  made  me  restless.  Suppose  we  get  a 
couple  of  horses  and  ride  out  to  the  convent  of  Daphni!  " 

She  got  up  at  once. 

"  Yes.     I've  brought  my  habit,  and  haven't  had  it  on  once." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  41 

As  they  left  the  Great  Temple  she  looked  up  at  the  mighty 
columns  and  said: 

"  Doric!     If  we  have  a  boy  let  us  bring  him  up  to  be  Doric." 
"  Yes,    Rosamund,"   he   said,    quietly   and    strongly.     "  We 
will." 

Afterward  he  believed  that  it  was  then,  and  only  then,  that 
he  caught  something  of  her  deep  longing  to  have  a  child.  He 
began  to  see  how  a  man's  child  might  influence  him  and  affect 
his  life,  might  even  send  him  upwards  by  innocently  looking 
up  to  him.  It  would  be  bad,  very  bad,  to  fail  as  a  husband, 
but,  by  Jove!  it  would  be  one  of  the  great  tragedies  to  fail  as 
a  father.  Mentally  Dion  measured  the  respective  heights  of 
himself  and  a  very  small  boy;  saw  the  small  boy's  trusting  eyes 
looking,  almost  peering,  up  at  him.  Such  eyes  could  change, 
could  become  very  attentive.  "  It  wouldn't  do  to  be  adversely 
criticized  by  your  boy,"  he  thought.  And  one  day  he  said  to 
Rosamund,  but  in  almost  a  casual  way: 

"  If  we  ever  do  have  a  boy,  Rose,  and  want  him  to  be  Doric, 
we  shall  have  to  start  in  by  being  Doric  ourselves,  eh  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I've  thought  that,  too." 
"  D'you  think  I  could  ever  learn  to  be  that?  " 
"  I  know  you  could.     You  are  on  the  way  already,  I  think. 
I  noticed  in  London  that  you  were  never  influenced  by  all  the 
affectations  and  absurdities,  or  worse,  that  seem  to  have  taken 
hold  of  so  many  people  lately." 

"  There  has  been  a  wave  of  something  rather  beastly  passing 
over  London  certainly.     But  I  almost  wonder  you  knew  it." 
"Why?" 

"  Can  your  eyes  see  anything  that  isn't  good?  " 
"  Yes.     But  I  don't  want  ever  to  look  long  on  what  I  hate." 
"  You  aren't  afraid  you  might  cease  from  hating  iti  " 
"  Oh,  no.     But  I  believe  in  feeding  always  on  wholesome 
food." 

"  Modern  London  doesn't." 

"  I  shall  never  be  modern,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  half  laugh- 
ing, and  with  a  soft  touch  of  apparently  genuine  deprecation. 
"Be  eternal,  that's  better!  "  he  almost  whispered.     "Listen 
to  that  nightingale.     It's  singing  a  song  of  all  the  ages.     You 
have  a  message  like  that  for  me." 

They  had  strolled  out  after  dinner  in  the  warm  May  night, 
and  had  walked  a  little  way  up  the  steep  flank  of  Lycabettos 
till  they  reached  a  wooden  bench  near  which  were  a  few  small 
fir  trees.  Somewhere  among  these  trees  there  was  hidden  a 


42  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

nightingale,  which  sang  with  intensity  to  Athens  spread  out 
below,  a  small  maze  of  mellow  lights  and  of  many  not  inhar- 
monious voices.  Even  in  the  night,  and  at  a  distance,  they 
felt  the  smiling  intimacy  of  the  little  city  they  loved.  Its  his- 
tory was  like  a  living  thing  dwelling  among  the  shadows, 
hallowed  and  hallowing,  its  treasures,  like  night  flowers, 
breathed  out  a  mysterious  message  to  them.  They  received  it, 
and  felt  that  they  understood  it.  Had  the  nightingale  been 
singing  to  any  city  its  song  must  have  seemed  to  them  beautiful. 
But  it  was  singing  to  Athens,  and  that  fact  gave  to  its  voice, 
in  their  ears,  a  magical  meaning. 

They  sat  for  a  while  in  silence.  Nobody  passed  on  the 
winding  path.  Their  impulse  to  solitude  was  unshared  by 
the  dwellers  in  Athens.  Neither  knew  exactly  what  thoughts 
were  passing  through  the  other's  mind,  what  aspirations  were 
flaming  up  in  the  heart  of  the  other.  But  they  knew  that  they 
were  close  bound  in  sympathy  just  then,  voyaging  towards  a 
common  future.  That  future  lay  over  the  sea  in  gray  England. 
Their  time  in  Greece  was  but  an  interlude.  But  in  it  they 
were  gathering  up  impressions,  were  laying  in  stores  for  their 
journey.  The  nightingale's  song  was  part  of  their  provision. 
It  had  to  sing  to  just  them  for  some  hidden  reason.  And  to 
Dion  it  seemed  that  the  nightingale  knew  the  reason  while  they 
did  not,  that  it  comprehended  all  the  under  things  of  love  and 
of  sorrow  of  which  they  were  ignorant.  When  he  spoke  again 
he  said : 

"  A  bird's  song  always  makes  me  feel  very  unlearned.  Do 
you  know  what  I  mean?  " 

"  Yes.     We've  got  to  learn  so  much." 

"  Together." 

"Yes  — partly." 

"  Partly?  "  he  said  quickly. 

"  I  think  there's  a  great  deal  that  can  only  be  learnt  quite 
alone." 

Again,  as  sometimes  before,  Dion  trod  on  the  verges  of 
mystery,  felt  as  if  something  in  Rosamund  eluded  him,  and 
was  chilled  for  a  moment. 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  But  I  believe  I  could 
learn  any  lesson  more  easily  with  you  to  help  me." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  know  which  is  right,  you  or  I,  when 
we've  been  much  longer  together,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  to 
speak  lightly. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  43 

"  Yes." 

"  Rosamund,  sometimes  you  make  me  feel  as  if  you  thought 
I  didn't  know  you,  I  mean  didn't  know  you  thoroughly." 

"Do  I?" 

"  Yes." 

Again  silence  fell  between  them.  As  Dion  listened  once 
more  to  the  persistent  nightingale  he  felt  that  there  was  pain 
somewhere  at  the  back  of  its  ecstasy.  He  looked  down  at  the 
soft  lights  of  little  Athens,  and  suddenly  knew  that  much  sor- 
row lay  in  the  shadows  of  all  the  cities  of  the  earth.  There 
was  surely  a  great  reserve  in  the  girl  who  had  given  herself  to 
him.  That  was  natural,  perhaps.  But  to-night  he  felt  that 
she  was  aware  of  this  reserve  and  was  consciously  guarding 
it  like  a  sacred  thing.  Presently  they  got  up  and  went  slowly 
down  the  hill. 

"  Suppose  you  had  never  married,"  he  said,  as  they  drew  near 
to  the  city,  "how  would  you  have  lived,  do  you  think?  " 

"  Perhaps  for  my  singing,  at  first,"  she  answered. 

"And  afterwards?  " 

"Afterwards?     Very  quietly,  I  think." 

"  You  won't  tell  me." 

"  I  don't  know  for  certain,  and  what  does  it  matter?  I 
have  married.  If  I  hadn't,  perhaps  I  should  have  been  very 
selfish  and  thought  myself  very  self-sacrificing." 

"  I  wonder  in  what  way  selfish." 

"  There  are  so  many  ways.  I  heard  a  sermon  once  on  a 
foggy  night  in  London." 

"  Ah  —  that  evening  I  called  on  you." 

"  I  didn't  say  so.  It  made  me  understand  egoism  better 
than  I  had  understood  it  before.  Perhaps  it's  the  unpardon- 
able sin." 

"  Then  it  could  never  be  your  sin." 

"Hush!" 

They  no  longer  heard  the  nightingale.  The  voices  and  the 
houses  of  Athens  were  about  them. 

As  the  days  slipped  by,  Dion  felt  that  Rosamund  and  he 
grew  closer  together.  He  knew,  though  he  could  not  perhaps 
have  said  how,  that  he  would  be  the  only  man  in  her  intimate 
life.  Even  if  he  died  she  would  never — -he  felt  sure  of  this  — 
yield  herself  to  another  man.  The  tie  between  them  was  to 
her  a  bond  for  eternity.  Her  body  would  never  be  given  twice. 
That  he  knew.  But  sometimes  he  asked  himself  whether  her 
whole  soul  would  ever  be  given  even  once.  The  insatiable 


44  .      IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

greed  of  a  great  and  exclusive  love  was  alive  within  him,  need- 
ing always  something  more  than  it  had.  At  first,  after  their 
marriage,  he  had  not  been  aware  of  this  greed,  had  not  realized 
that  nothing  great  is  content  to  remain  just  as  it  is  at  a  given 
moment.  His  love  had  to  progress,  and  gradually,  in  Greece, 
he  became  conscious  of  this  fact. 

His  inner  certainty,  quite  unshakable,  that  Rosamund  would 
never  belong  to  another  man  in  the  physical  sense  made  jealousy 
of  an  ordinary  kind  impossible  to  him.  The  lowness,  the 
hideous  vulgarity  of  the  jealousy  which  tortures  the  writhing 
flesh  would  never  be  his.  Yet  he  wanted  more  than  he  had 
sometimes,  stretched  out  arms  to  something  which  did  not 
come  to  nestle  against  him. 

There  was  a  great  independence  in  Rosamund,  he  thought, 
which  set  her  apart  from  other  women.  Not  only  could  she 
bear  to  be  alone,  she  sometimes  wished  to  be  alone.  Dion, 
on  the  contrary,  never  wished  to  be  away  from  her.  It  might 
be  necessary  for  him  to  leave  her.  He  was  not  a  young  doting 
fool  who  could  not  detach  himself  even  for  a  moment  from 
his  wife's  apron  strings.  But  he  knew  very  well  that  at  all 
times  he  preferred  to  be  with  her,  close  to  her,  that  he  relished 
everything  more  when  he  was  in  her  company  than  when  he 
was  alone.  She  added  to  his  power  of  enjoyment,  to  his  faculty 
of  appreciation,  by  being  beside  him.  The  Parthenon  even 
was  made  more  sublime  to  him  by  her.  That  was  a  mystery. 
And  the  mystery  of  her  human  power  to  increase  penetrated 
everywhere  through  their  life  in  common,  like  a  percolating 
flood  that  could  not  be  gainsaid.  She  manifested  her  influence 
upon  him  subtly  through  the  maidens  of  the  Porch,  through 
the  almost  neat  perfection  of  the  Theseion,  through  the  de- 
tached grandeur  of  those  columns  in  the  waste  place,  that 
golden  and  carved  Olympieion  which  acts  as  an  outpost  to 
Athens.  It  was  as  if  she  had  the  power  to  put  something  of 
herself  into  everything  that  he  cared  for  so  that  he  might  care 
for  it  more,  whether  it  were  a  golden  sunset  on  the  sea  over 
which  they  drifted  in  a  sailing-boat  off  the  coast  of  old 
Phaleron,  or  a  marble  figure  in  a  museum.  She  dwelt  in  the 
stones  of  a  ruined  temple;  she  set  her  feet  upon  the  dream  of 
the  distant  mountains;  she  was  in  the  dawn,  the  twilight,  and 
in  all  the  ways  of  the  moon,  because  he  loved  her  and  found 
her  in  all  things  when  they  were  together. 

He  did  not  know  whether  she,  in  a  similar  mysterious  way, 
found  him  in  all  that  she  enjoyed.  He  did  not  ask  her  the 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  45 

question.  Perhaps,  really,  in  that  truth  of  apprehension  which 
lives  very  far  down  in  a  man,  he  had  divined  the  answer, 
although  he  told  himself  that  he  did  not  know. 

He  found  always  something  new  to  enjoy  and  to  worship 
in  Rosamund. 

They  had  many  tastes  in  common.  At  first,  of  deliberate 
choice,  they  had  bounded  their  honeymoon  with  the  precipices 
of  the  Acropolis,  learning  the  Doric  lesson  on  that  height  above 
the  world.  Then  one  day  they  had  made  a  great  sacrifice 
and  gone  to  pass  their  hours  in  the  pine  woods  of  Kephissia. 
They  had  returned  to  the  Acropolis  quite  athirst.  But  by 
degrees  the  instinct  to  wander  a  little  farther  afield  took  greater 
hold  upon  them,  their  love  of  physical  exercise  asserted  itself. 
They  began  to  take  long  rides  on  horseback,  carrying  food  in 
their  saddle-bags.  The  gently  wild  charm  of  Greece  laid  its 
spell  upon  them.  They  both  loved  Athens,  but  now  they  began 
to  love,  too,  escaping  from  Athens. 

Directly  they  were  out  of  the  city  they  were  in  a  freedom 
that  appealed  to  the  gipsy  in  both.  Dion's  strong  boyishness, 
which  had  never  yet  been  cast  off,  was  met  and  countered  by 
the  best  of  good  fellowship  in  Rosamund.  Though  she  could 
be  very  serious,  and  even  what  he  called  "  strange,"  she  was 
never  depressed  or  sad.  Her  good  spirits  were  unfailing  and 
infectious.  She  reveled  in  a  "  jaunt  "  or  a  "  day  out,"  and 
her  physical  strength  kept  fatigue  far  from  her.  She  could 
ride  for  many  hours  without  losing  her  freshness  and  zest. 
Every  little  episode  of  the  wayside  interested  and  entertained 
her.  Everything  comic  made  her  laugh.  She  showed  an  ardor 
almost  like  an  intelligent  child's  in  getting  to  understand  all 
she  saw.  Scenery,  buildings,  animal  life,  people,  every  offer- 
ing of  Greece  was  eagerly  accepted,  examined  and  discussed 
by  her.  She  was  the  perfect  comrade  for  the  wilds.  Their 
common  joy  in  the  wilds  drew  her  and  Dion  more  closely 
together.  Never  before  had  Rosamund  been  quite  away  from 
civilization,  from  the  hitherto  easily  borne  trammels  of  modern 
complicated  life.  She  "  found  herself "  in  the  adventure. 
The  pure  remoteness  of  Greece  came  to  her  like  natal  air.  She 
breathed  it  in  with  a  sort  of  rapture.  It  was  as  Dion  had  said. 
She  was  not  merely  in,  she  was  of,  Greece. 

They  rode  one  day  to  Eleusis;  on  another  day  to  Tatoi, 
buried  in  oak-woods  on  the  slope  of  Parnes;  on  another  through 
noisy  and  mongrel  Piraeus,  and  over  undulating  wrinkled 
ground,  burnt  up  by  the  sun  and  covered  with  low  scrub  and 


46  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

bushes  of  myrtle,  to  the  shore  of  the  gulf  opposite  to  Salamis; 
on  yet  another  to  Marathon,  where  they  lunched  on  the  famous 
mound  beneath  which  the  bodies  of  Athenians  who  fell  in  the 
battle  were  buried.  They  took  no  companion  with  them.  Dion 
carried  a  revolver  in  his  hip  pocket,  but  never  had  reason  to 
show  or  to  use  it.  When  they  dismounted  they  tethered  the 
horses  to  a  bush  or  tree,  or  sometimes  hobbled  their  forelegs, 
and  turned  them  loose  for  a  while. 

Such  days  were  pure  joy  to  them  both.  In  them  they  went 
back  to  the  early  world.  They  did  not  make  the  hard  and 
self-conscious  imaginative  effort  of  the  prig  to  hurl  themselves 
into  an  historic  past.  They  just  let  tlu  land  and  its  memories 
take  them.  As,  sitting  on  the  warm  ground  among  the  wild 
myrtle  bushes,  they  looked  across  the  emerald  green  unruffled 
waters  to  Salamis,  that  very  long  isle  with  its  calm  gray  and 
orange  hills  and  its  indented  shores,  perhaps  for  a  moment 
they  talked  of  the  Queen  of  Halicarnassus,  and  of  the  decep- 
tion of  Xerxes  watching  from  his  throne  on  Mount  ^galeos. 
But  the  waters  were  now  so  solitary,  the  peace  about  them  was 
so  profound,  that  the  memory  of  battles  soon  faded  away  in  the 
sunshine.  Terror  and  death  had  been  here  once.  A  queen 
had  destroyed  her  own  people  in  that  jeweled  sea,  a  king  had 
fled  from  those  delicate  mountains.  But  now  sea  and  land 
were  for  lovers.  A  fly  with  shining  wings  journeyed  among 
the  leaves  of  the  myrtles,  a  beetle  crept  over  the  hot  sandy 
ground  leaving  a  minute  pattern  behind  it;  and  Rosamund 
and  Dion  forgot  all  about  Artemisia,  as  they  brooded,  wide- 
eyed,  over  the  activities  of  the  dwellers  in  the  waste.  At  such 
moments  they  realized  the  magic  of  life,  as  they  had  never 
realized  it  in  the  turmoil  of  London.  The  insect  with  its  wings 
that  caught  the  sun,  the  intent  and  preoccupied  little  traveler 
whose  course  could  be  deflected  by  a  twig,  revealed  the  wonder 
that  is  lost  and  forgotten  in  the  crowded  highways  of  men. 

It  was  when  they  were  at  Marathon  that  Rosamund  told 
Dion  she  loved  Greece  partly  because  of  its  emptiness.  The 
country  was  not  only  rather  bare  of  vegetation,  despite  its 
groves  of  glorious  old  olives,  its  woods  of  oaks  round  Tatoi,  its 
delicious  curly  forests  of  yellow-green  pines,  which  looked, 
Rosamund  declared,  as  if  they  had  just  had  their  dainty  heads 
perfectly  dressed  by  an  accomplished  coiffeur,  it  was  also  almost 
strangely  bare  of  men. 

"  Where  are  the  Greeks?  "  Rosamund  had  often  asked  during 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  47 

their  first  few  rides,  as  they  cantered  on  and  on,  scarcely  ever 
meeting  a  human  being. 

"  In  the  towns  to  be  sure!  "  Dion  had  answered. 

"  And  where  are  the  towns?  " 

"Ah!  That's  more  than  I  can  tell  you!"  he  had  said, 
laughing. 

To  one  hitherto  accustomed  to  England,  the  emptiness  of 
the  country,  even  quite  near  to  Athens,  was  at  first  surprising. 
Soon  it  became  enchanting. 

"  This  is  a  country  I  can  thoroughly  trust,"  Rosamund  de- 
clared at  Marathon. 

Dion  had  just  finished  hobbling  the  two  horses,  and  now 
lifted  himself  up.  His  brown  face  was  flushed  from  bending. 
His  thin  riding-clothes  were  white  with  dust,  which  he  beat 
off  with  hands  that  looked  almost  as  if  they  wore  gloves,  so 
deeply  were  they  dyed  by  the  sun.  As  the  cloud  dispersed 
he  emerged  carrying  their  lunch  in  a  straw  pannier. 

"Why  trust  —  specially?"  he  said.  "Ah,"  he  threw  him- 
self down  by  her  side  with  a  sigh  of  happiness,  "  this  is  good! 
The  historic  mound,  and  we  think  of  it  merely  as  a  resting- 
place,  vandals  that  we  are.  But  —  why  trust  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  Greece  never  keeps  any  unpleasant  surprises 
up  her  sleeve,  surprises  such  as  other  countries  have  of  noisy, 
intruding  people.  It's  terrible  how  accustomed  I'm  getting 
to  having  everything  all  to  myself,  and  how  I  simply  love  it." 

He  began  slowly  unpacking  the  pannier,  and  laying  its  con- 
tents out  on  the  mound. 

"  You're  a  puzzle,  Rosamund,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  You  have  a  greater  faculty  for  making  yourself  delightful 
to  all  sorts  of  people  than  I  have  found  in  any  other  person, 
woman  or  man.  And  yet  you  are  developing  a  perfect  passion 
for  solitude." 

"  Do  you  want  people  here  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  agree  with  me." 

"  But  you  have  an  absolute  lust  for  an  empty  world." 

"Look!" 

She  stretched  out  her  right  arm  —  she  was  leaning  on  the 
other  with  her  cheek  in  her  hand  —  and  pointed  to  the  crescent- 
shaped  plain  which  lay  beyond  them,  bounded  by  a  sea  which 
was  a  wonder  of  sparkling  and  intense  blue,  and  guarded  by  a 


48  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

curving  line  of  low  hills.  There  were  some  clouds  in  the  sky, 
but  the  winds  were  at  rest,  and  the  clouds  were  just  white 
things  dreaming.  In  the  plain  there  were  no  trees.  Here  and 
there  some  vague  crops  hinted  at  the  languid  labors  of  men. 
No  human  beings  were  visible,  but  in  the  distance,  not  very 
far  from  the  sea  edge,  a  few  oxen  were  feeding.  Their  dark 
slow-moving  bodies  intersected  the  blue.  There  were  no  ships 
or  boats  upon  the  stretch  of  sea  which  Rosamund  and  Dion 
gazed  at.  Behind  them  the  bare  hills  showed  no  sign  of  life. 
The  solitude  was  profound  but  not  startling.  It  seemed  in 
place,  necessary  and  beautiful.  In  the  emptiness  there  was 
something  touching,  something  reticently  satisfying.  It  was  a 
land  and  seascape  delicately  purged. 

"  Greece  and  solitude,"  said  Rosamund.  "  I  shall  always 
connect  them  together.  I  shall  always  love  each  for  the  other's 
sake." 

In  the  silence  which  followed  the  words  the  far-off  lowing 
of  oxen  came  to  them  over  the  flats.  Rosamund  shut  her  eyes, 
Dion  half  shut  his,  and  the  empty  world  was  a  shining  dream. 

When  they  had  lunched,  Rosamund  said: 

"  I'm  going  to  climb  up  into  that  house.  The  owner  will 
never  come,  I'm  sure." 

Near  them  upon  the  mound  was  a  dwelling  of  Arcady,  in 
which  surely  a  shepherd  sometimes  lay  and  piped  to  the  sun 
and  the  sea  god.  It  was  lifted  upon  a  tripod  of  poles,  and 
was  deftly  made  of  brushwood,  with  roof,  floor  and  two  walls 
all  complete.  A  ladder  of  wood,  from  which  the  bark  had 
been  stripped,  led  up  to  it. 

"  You  want  to  sleep?  "  Dion  asked. 

She  looked  at  him. 

"  Perhaps." 

He  helped  her  up  to  her  feet.  Quickly  she  mounted  the 
ladder  and  stepped  into  the  room. 

"  Good-by!  "  she  said,  looking  down  at  him  and  smiling. 

"  Good-by!  "  he  answered,  looking  up. 

She  made  a  pretense  of  shutting  a  door  and  withdrawing 
into  privacy.  He  lit  his  pipe,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went 
to  lie  down  under  her  room.  Now  he  no  longer  saw  her,  but 
he  heard  her  movements  overhead.  The  dry  brushwood 
crackled  as  she  lay  down,  as  she  settled  herself.  She  was  lying 
surely  at  full  length.  He  guessed  that  she  had  stretched  out 
her  arms  and  put  her  two  hands  under  her  head.  She  sighed. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  49 

Below  he  echoed  her  sigh  with  a  long  breath  of  contentment. 
Then  they  both  lay  very  still. 

Marathon ! 

He  remembered  his  schoolbooks.  He  remembered  begin- 
ning Greek.  He  had  never  been  very  good  at  Greek.  His 
mother,  if  she  had  been  a  man  and  had  gone  to  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge, would  have  made  a  far  better  classic  than  he.  She  had 
helped  him  sometimes  during  the  holidays  when  he  was  quite 
small.  He  remembered  exactly  how  she  had  looked  when  he 
had  been  conjugating  TTOVW  —  half-loving  and  half-satirical. 
He  had  made  a  good  many  mistakes.  He  had  said  that  e-arov 
was  the  first  aorist  active,  and  his  mother  had  remarked,  "  Xot 
yet,  dee-ar!  "  as  if,  perhaps,  the  verb  were  on  the  way  towards 
his  conception  of  it  out  of  sheer  politeness.  One  never  knew. 
Later  he  had  read  Greek  history  with  his  mother,  he  had  read 
about  the  battle  of  Marathon. 

"  Marathon  " —  it  was  written  in  his  school  history,  "  became 
a  magic  word  at  Athens  .  .  .  the  one  hundred  and  ninety-two 
Athenians  who  had  perished  in  the  battle  were  buried  on  the 
field,  and  over  their  remains  a  tumulus  or  mound  was  erected, 
which  may  still  be  seen  about  half  a  mile  from  the  sea."  As 
a  small  boy  he  had  read  that  with  a  certain  inevitable  detach- 
ment. And  now  here  he  lay,  a  man,  on  that  very  tumulus,  and 
the  brushwood  creaked  above  his  head  with  the  movement  of 
the  woman  he  loved. 

How  wonderful  was  the  weaving  of  the  Fates! 

And  if  some  day  he  should  sit  in  the  place  of  his  mother, 
and  should  hear  a  small  boy,  his  small  boy,  conjugating  Trav'w! 
By  Jove!  He  would  have  to  rub  up  his  classics!  Not  for  ten 
years  old;  he  wasn't  so  bad  as  that;  but  for  twenty,  when  the 
small  boy  would  be  going  up  to  Oxford,  and  would,  perhaps, 
be  turning  out  alarmingly  learned. 

Rosamund  the  mother  of  a  young  man! 

But  Dion  shied  away  from  that.  He  could  imagine  her  as 
the  mother  of  a  child,  beautiful  mother  of  a  child  almost  as 
beautiful;  but  he  could  not  conceive  of  her  as  the  "mater"  of 
a  person  with  a  mustache. 

Their  youth,  their  youth  —  must  it  go? 

Again  she  moved  slightly  above  him.  The  twigs  crackled, 
making  an  almost  irritable  music  of  dryness.  Again  the  lowing 
of  cattle  came  over  that  old  battlefield  from  the  edge  of  the 
sea.  And  just  then,  at  that  very  moment,  Dion  knew  that  his 


50  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

great  love  could  not  stand  still,  that,  like  all  great  things,  it 
must  progress.  And  the  cry,  that  intense  human  cry, 
'  "  Whither?  "  echoed  in  the  deep  places  of  his  soul.  Whither 
were  he  and  his  great  love  going?  To  what  end  were  they 
journeying?  For  a  moment  sadness  invaded  him,  the  sadness 
of  one  who  thinks  and  is  very  ignorant.  Why  cannot  a  man 
think  deeply  without  thinking  of  an  end?  "  All  things  come 
to  an  end!  "  That  cruel  saying  went  through  his  mind  like 
footsteps  echoing  on  iron,  and  a  sense  of  fear  encompassed  him. 
There  is  something  terrible  in  a  great  love,  set  in  the  little  life 
of  a  man  like  a  vast  light  in  a  tiny  attic. 

Did  Rosamund  ever  have  such  thoughts?  Dion  longed  to 
ask  her.  Was  she  sleeping  perhaps  now?  She  was  lying  very 
still.  If  they  ever  had  a  child  its  coming  would  mark  a  great 
step  onwards  along  the  road,  the  closing  of  a  very  beautiful 
chapter  in  their  book  of  life.  It  would  be  over,  their  loneliness 
in  love,  man  and  woman  in  solitude.  Even  the  sexual  tie 
would  be  changed.  All  the  world  would  be  changed. 

He  lay  flat  on  the  ground,  stretched  out,  his  elbows  firmly 
planted,  his  chin  in  his  palms,  his  face  set  towards  the  plain 
and  the  sea. 

What  he  looked  at  seemed  gently  to  chide  him.  There  were 
such  a  brightness  and  simplicity  and  such  a  delicious  freedom 
from  all  complication  in  this  Grecian  landscape  edged  by  the 
wide  frankness  of  the  sea  that  he  felt  reassured.  Edging  the 
mound  there  were  wild  aloes  and  the  wild  oleander.  A  river 
intersected  the  plain  which  in  many  places  was  tawny  yellow. 
Along  the  river  bank  grew  tall  reeds,  sedges  and  rushes.  Be- 
yond the  plain,  and  beyond  the  blue  waters,  rose  the  Island  of 
Euboea,  and  ranges  of  mountains,  those  mountains  of  Greece 
which  are  so  characteristic  in  their  unpretentious  bareness, 
which  neither  overwhelm  nor  entice,  but  which  are  unfailingly 
delicate,  unfailingly  beautiful,  quietly,  almost  gently,  noble. 
In  the  distance,  when  he  turned  his  head,  Dion  could  see  the 
little  Albanian  village  of  Marathon,  a  huddle  of  tiny  houses 
far  off  under  the  hills.  He  looked  at  it  for  a  moment,  then 
again  looked  out  over  the  plain,  rejoicing  in  its  emptiness. 
Along  the  sea  edge  the  cattle  were  straying,  but  their  movements 
were  almost  imperceptible.  Still  they  were  living  things  and 
drew  Dion's  eyes.  The  life  in  them  sent  out  its  message  to 
the  life  in  him,  and  he  earnestly  watched  them  grazing.  Their 
vague  and  ruminating  movements  really  emphasized  the  pro- 
found peace  which  lay  around  Rosamund  and  him.  To  watch 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  51 

them  thus  was  a  savoring  of  peace.  For  every  contented  ani- 
mal is  a  bearer  of  peaceful  tidings.  In  the  Garden  of  Eden 
with  the  Two  there  were  happy  animals.  And  Dion  recalled 
the  great  battle  which  had  dyed  red  this  serene  wilderness,  a 
battle  which  was  great  because  it  had  been  greatly  sung,  lifted 
up  by  the  music  of  poets,  set  on  high  by  the  lips  of  orators. 
He  looked  over  the  land  and  thought :  "  Here  Miltiades  won 
the  name  which  has  resounded  through  history.  To  that  shore, 
where  I  see  the  cattle,  the  Persians  were  driven."  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  battle  of  Marathon  had  been  fought  in 
order  that  Rosamund  and  he,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  might 
be  drawn  to  this  place  to  meet  the  shining  afternoon.  Yes,  it 
was  fought  for  that,  and  to  make  this  place  the  more  wonderful 
for  them.  It  was  their  Garden  of  Eden  consecrated  by  History. 

\Yhat  a  very  small  animal  that  was  which  had  strayed  away 
from  its  kind  over  the  tawny  ground  where  surely  there  was 
nothing  to  feed  upon!  The  little  dark  body  of  it  looked  oddly 
detached  as  it  moved  along.  And  now  another  animal  was 
following  it  quickly.  The  arrival  of  the  second  darkness,  run- 
ning, made  Dion  know  that  the  first  was  human,  the  guardian 
of  the  beasts,  no  doubt. 

So  Eden  was  invaded  already!  He  smiled  as  he  thought 
of  the  serpent.  The  human  being  came  on  slowly,  always 
moving  in  the  direction  of  the  mound,  and  always  accompanied 
by  its  attendant  animal  —  a  dog,  of  course.  Soon  Dion  knew 
that  both  were  making  for  the  mound.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
Rosamund  was  in  the  private  room  of  him  who  was  approach- 
ing, was  possibly  sound  asleep  there. 

"  Rosamund !  "  he  almost  whispered. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Rosamund!  "  he  murmured,  looking  upward  to  his  roof, 
which  was  her  floor. 

"  Hush !  "  came  down  to  him  through  the  brushwood.  "  I'm 
willing  it  to  come  to  us." 

"What  —  the  guardian  of  the  cattle?" 

"  Guardian  of  the !     It's  a  child!  " 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  do  know.     Now  you're  not  to  frighten  it" 

"Of  course  not!" 

He  lay  very  still,  his  chin  in  his  palms,  watching  the  on- 
comers.  How  had  she  known?  And  then,  seeing  suddenly 
through  her  eyes,  he  knew  that  of  course  it  was  a  child,  tha't  it 
could  not  be  anything  else.  All  its  movements  now  proclaimed 


52  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  him  its  childishness,  and  he  watched  it  with  a  sort  of  fasci- 
nation. 

For  he  had  never  yet  seen  Rosamund  with  a  child.  That 
would  be  for  him  a  new  experience  with  something,  perhaps, 
prophetic  in  it. 

Child  and  animal  approached  steadily,  keeping  an  un- 
deviating  course,  and  presently  Dion  saw  a  very  small,  but 
sturdy,  Greek  boy  of  perhaps  ten  years  old,  wearing  a  collar- 
less  shirt,  open  at  a  deep  brown  throat,  leggings  of  some  thin 
material,  boots,  and  a  funny  little  patched  brown  coat  and 
pointed  hood  made  all  in  one,  and  hanging  down  with  a  fulness 
almost  of  skirts  about  the  small  determined  legs.  The  accom- 
panying dog  was  a  very  sympathetic,  blunt-nosed,  round- 
headed,  curly-coated  type,  whose  whiteness,  which  positively 
invited  the  stroking  hand,  was  broken  by  two  great  black 
blotches  set  all  askew  on  the  back,  and  by  a  black  patch  which 
ringed  the  left  eye  and  completely  smothered  the  cocked-up  left 
ear.  The  child  carried  a  stick,  which  nearly  reached  to  his 
shoulder,  and  which  ended  in  a  long  and  narrow  crook.  The 
happy  dog,  like  its  master,  had  no  collar. 

When  these  two  reached  the  foot  of  the  tumulus  they  stood 
still  and  stared  upwards.  The  dog  uttered  a  short  gruff  bark, 
looked  at  the  boy,  wagged  a  fat  tail,  barked  again,  abruptly 
depressed  the  fore  part  of  its  body  till  its  chin  was  against  the 
ground  between  its  paws,  then  jumped  into  the  air  with  a 
sudden  demeanor  of  ludicrously  young,  and  rather  uncouth, 
waggishness,  which  made  Dion  laugh. 

The  small  boy  replied  with  a  smile  almost  as  sturdy  as  his 
legs,  which  he  now  permitted  to  convey  him  with  decisive 
firmness  through  the  wild  aloes  and  oleanders  to  the  summit 
of  the  tumulus.  He  stood  before  Dion,  holding  his  crooked 
staff  tightly  in  his  right  hand,  but  his  large  dark  eyes  were 
directed  upwards.  Evidently  his  attention  was  not  to  be  given 
to  Dion.  His  dog,  on  the  contrary,  after  a  stare  and  two 
muffled  attempts  at  a  menacing  bark,  came  to  make  friends  with 
Dion  in  a  way  devoid  of  all  dignity,  full  of  curves,  wrigglings, 
tail  wr.ggings  and  grins  which  exposed  rows  of  smiling  teeth. 

"  Dion !  "  came  Rosamund's  voice  from  above. 

"Yes?" 

"  Do  show  him  the  way  up.     He  wants  to  come  up." 

Dion  got  up,  took  the  little  Greek's  hand  firmly,  led  him 
to  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and  pointed  to  Rosamund  who  leaned 
from  her  brushwood  chamber  and  held  out  inviting  hands, 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  53 

smiling,  and  looking  at  the  child  with  shining  eyes.  He  under- 
stood that  he  was  very  much  wanted,  gravely  placed  his  staff 
on  the  ground,  laid  hold  of  the  ladder,  and  slowly  clambered 
up,  with  the  skirts  of  his  coat  sticking  out  behind  him.  His 
tog  set  up  a  loud  barking,  scrambled  at  the  ladder,  and  made 
desperate  efforts  to  follow  him. 

"Help  him  up,  Dion!  "  came  the  commanding  voice  from 
above. 

Dion  seized  the  curly  coat  of  the  dog  —  picked  up  handfuls 
of  dog.  There  was  a  struggle.  The  dog  made  fierce  motions 
as  if  swimming,  and  whined  in  a  thin  and  desperate  soprano. 
Its  body  heaved  upwards,  its  forepaws  clutched  the  edge  of 
the  brushwood  floor,  and  it  arrived. 

"  Bravo!  "  cried  Rosamund,  as  she  proceeded  to  settle  down 
with  her  guests.  "  But  why  don't  I  know  Greek?  " 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  Dion  murmured,  standing  with  his 
hands  on  the  ladder.  "  You  know  their  language." 

Rosamund  was  sitting  now,  half-curled  up,  with  her  back 
against  the  brushwood  wall.  Her  light  sun-helmet  lay  on  the 
floor.  In  her  ruffled  hair  were  caught  two  or  three  thin  brown 
leaves,  their  brittle  edges  curled  inwards.  The  little  boy, 
slightly  smiling,  yet  essentially  serious,  as  are  children  tested 
by  a  great  new  experience,  squatted  close  to  her  and  facing  her, 
with  one  leg  under  him,  the  other  leg  stretched  out  confiden- 
tially, as  much  as  to  say,  "Here  it  is!"  The  dog  lay  close 
by  panting,  smiling,  showing  as  much  tongue  and  teeth  as  was 
caninely  possible  in  the  ardor  of  feeling  tremendously  uplifted, 
important,  one  of  the  very  few. 

And  Rosamund  proceeded  to  entertain  her  guests. 

What  did  she  do?  Sometimes,  long  afterwards  in  England, 
Dion,  recalling  that  day  —  a  very  memorable  day  in  his  life 
—  asked  himself  the  question.  And  he  could  never  remember 
very  much.  But  he  knew  that  Rosamund  showed  him  new 
aspects  of  tenderness  and  fun.  What  do  women  Avho  love  and 
understand  little  boys  do  to  put  them  at  their  ease,  to  break 
down  their  small  shynesses?  Rosamund  did  absurd  things 
with  deep  earnestness  and  complete  concentration.  She  in- 
vented games,  played  with  twigs  and  straws  which  she  drew 
from  the  walls  of  her  chamber.  She  changed  the  dog's  ap- 
pearance by  rearrangements  of  his  ears,  to  which  he  submitted 
with  a  slobbering  ecstasy,  gazing  at  her  with  yellow  eyes  which 
looked  flattened  in  his  head.  Turned  quite  back,  their  pink 
insides  exposed  to  view,  the  ears  changed  him  into  a  brand-new 


54  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

dog,  at  which  his  master  stared  with  an  amazement  which  soon 
was  merged  in  gratification.  With  a  pocket-handkerchief  she 
performed  marvels  of  impersonation  which  the  boy  watched  with 
an  almost  severe  intentness,  even  putting  out  his  tongue  slowly, 
and  developing  a  slight  squint,  when  the  magician  rose  to 
the  top  of  her  powers.  She  conjured  with  a  silver  coin,  and  of 
course  let  the  child  play  with  her  watch.  She  had  realized  at 
a  glance  that  those  things  which  would  be  considered  as  baby 
nonsense  by  an  English  boy  of  ten,  to  this  small  dweller  on  the 
plain  of  Marathon  were  full  of  the  magic  of  the  unknown. 
And  at  last: 

"  Throw  me  up  an  orange,  Dion !  "  she  cried.  "  I  know 
there  are  two  or  three  left  in  the  pannier." 

Dion  bent  down  eagerly,  rummaged  and  found  an  orange. 

"Here!"  he  said.     "Catch!" 

He  threw  it  up.  She  caught  it  with  elaboration  to  astonish 
the  boy. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  asked  Dion. 

"  Throw  me  up  your  pocket-knife  and  you'll  see." 

Again  he  threw  and  she  caught,  while  the  boy's  mouth  gaped. 

"  Now  then !  "  cried  Rosamund. 

She  set  to  work,  and  almost  directly  had  introduced  her 
astounded  guest  of  the  Greek  kingdom  to  the  famous  "  Cross- 
ing the  Channel  "  tragedy. 

So  great  was  the  effect  of  this  upon  little  Miltiades, —  so 
they  both  always  called  the  boy  when  talking  of  him  in  after 
times, —  that  he  began  to  perspire,  and  drops  of  saliva  fell 
from  the  corners  of  his  small  and  pouting  mouth  in  imitation  of 
the  dreadfully  human  orange  by  which  he  was  confronted. 
Thereupon  Rosamund  threw  off  all  ceremony  and  frankly 
played  the  mother.  She  drew  the  boy,  smiling,  sideways  to  her, 
wiped  his  mouth  with  her  handkerchief,  gently  blew  his  small 
nose  and  gave  him  a  warm  kiss. 

"There!"  she  said 

And  upon  this  the  child  made  a  remark. 

Neither  of  them  ever  knew  what  it  meant.  It  was  long, 
and  sounded  like  an  explanation.  Having  spoken,  Miltiades 
suddenly  looked  shy.  He  wriggled  towards  the  top  of  the 
ladder.  Dion  thought  that  Rosamund  would  try  to  stop  him 
from  leaving  her,  but  she  did  not.  On  the  contrary,  she  drew 
up  her  legs  and  made  way  for  him,  carefully.  The  child  deftly 
descended,  picked  up  his  staff  and  turned.  The  dog,  barking 
joyously,  had  leaped  after  him,  and  now  gamboled  around  him. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  55- 

For  a  moment  the  child  hesitated,  and  in  that  moment  Dion 
popped  the  remains  of  their  lunch  into  his  coat  pockets;  then 
slowly  he  walked  to  the  side  of  the  tumulus  by  which  he  had 
come  up.  There  he  stood  for  two  or  three  minutes  staring  once 
more  up  at  Rosamund.  She  waved  a  friendly  hand  to  him, 
boyishly,  Dion  thought.  He  smiled  cautiously,  then  confi- 
dentially, suddenly  turned  and  bolted  down  the  slope  uttering 
little  cries  —  and  so  away  once  more  to  the  far-off  cattle  on  the 
old  battlefield,  followed  by  his  curly  dog. 

When  Dion  had  watched  him  into  the  distance,  beyond  which 
lay  the  shining  glory  of  the  sea,  and  looked  up  to  Rosamund 
again,  she  was  pulling  the  little  dry  leaves  from  her  undulat- 
ing hair. 

"  I'm  all  brushwood,"  she  said,  "  and  I  love  it." 

"  So  do  I." 

"  I  ought  to  have  been  born  a  shepherdess.  Why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that?  " 

"  Perhaps  because  I'm  seeing  a  new  girl  who's  got  even  more 
woman  in  her  than  I  knew  till  to-day." 

"  Most  women  are  like  that,  Dion,  when  they  get  the 
chance." 

"To  think  you  knew  all  those  tricks  and  never  told  me!  " 

"  Help  me  down." 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  to  her.  When  she  was  on  the 
ground  he  still  held  her  for  a  moment. 

"  You  darling !  "  he  whispered.  "  Never  shall  I  forget  this 
day  at  Marathon,  the  shining,  the  child,  and  you  —  you!  " 

They  did  not  talk  much  on  the  long  ride  homeward.  The 
heat  was  great,  but  they  were  not  afraid  of  it,  for  the  shining 
fires  of  this  land  on  the  edge  of  the  east  cherished  and  did 
not  burn  them.  The  white  dust  lay  deep  on  the  road,  and 
flew  in  light  clouds  from  under  the  feet  of  their  horses  as  they 
rode  slowly  upwards,  leaving  the  blue  of  their  pastoral  behind 
them,  and  coming  into  the  yellow  of  the  pine  woods.  Later, 
as  they  drew  nearer  to  Athens,  the  ancient  groves  of  the  olives, 
touched  with  a  gentle  solemnity,  would  give  them  greeting;  the 
fig  trees  and  mulberry  trees  would  be  about  them,  and  the  long 
vineyards  watched  over  by  the  aristocratic  cypress  lifting  its 
dark  spire  to  the  sun.  But  now  the  kingdom  of  the  pine  trees 
joyously  held  them.  They  were  in  the  happy  woods  in  which 
even  to  breathe  was  sheer  happiness.  Now  and  then  they 
pulled  up  and  looked  back  to  the  crescent-shaped  plain  which 
held  a  child  instead  of  armies.  They  traced  the  course  of  the 


56  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

river  marked  out  by  the  reeds  and  sedges.  They  saw  the  tiny 
dark  specks,  which  were  cattle  grazing,  with  the  wonder  of 
blue  beyond  them.  In  these  moments,  half-unconsciously,  they 
were  telling  memory  to  lay  in  its  provision  for  the  future. 
Perhaps  they  would  never  come  back;  never  again  would  Rosa- 
mund rest  in  her  brushwood  chamber,  never  again  would  Dion 
hear  the  dry  music  above  him,  and  feel  the  growth  of  his  love, 
the  urgency  of  its  progress  just  as  he  had  felt  them  that  day. 
They  might  be  intensely  happy,  but  exactly  the  same  happiness 
would  probably  not  be  theirs  again  through  all  the  years  that 
were  coming.  The  little  boy  and  his  dog  had  doubtless  gone 
out  of  their  lives  for  ever.  Their  good-by  to  Marathon  might 
well  be  final.  They  looked  back  again  and  again,  till  the  blue 
of  the  sea  was  lost  to  them.  Then  they  rode  on,  faster.  The 
horses  knew  they  were  going  homeward,  and  showed  a  new 
liveliness,  sharing  the  friskiness  of  the  little  graceful  trees  about 
them.  Now  and  then  the  riders  saw  some  dusty  peasants  — 
brown  and  sun-dried  men  wearing  the  fustanella,  and  shoes 
with  turned-up  toes  ornamented  with  big  black  tassels;  women 
with  dingy  handkerchiefs  tied  over  their  heads;  children  who 
looked  almost  like  spawn  of  the  sun  in  their  healthy,  bright- 
eyed  brownness.  And  these  people  had  cheerful  faces.  Their 
rustic  lot  seemed  enviable.  Who  would  not  shed  his  sorrows 
under  these  pine  trees,  in  this  country  where  the  solitudes 
radiated  happiness,  and  even  bareness  was  like  music?  Here 
was  none  of  the  heavy  and  exotic  passion,  none  of  the  lustrous 
and  almost  morbid  romance  of  the  true  and  distant  East, 
drowsy  with  voluptuous  memories.  That  setting  was  not  for 
Rosamund.  Here  were  a  lightness,  a  purity  and  sweetness  of 
Arcadia,  and  people  who  looked  both  intelligent  and  simple. 

At  a  turn  of  the  road  they  met  some  Vlachs  —  rascally 
wanderers,  lean  as  greyhounds,  chicken-stealers  and  robbers  in 
the  night,  yet  with  a  sort  of  consecration  of  careless  cheerfulness 
upon  them.  They  called  out.  In  their  cries  there  was  the 
sound  of  a  lively  malice.  Their  brown  feet  stirred  up  the  dust 
and  set  it  dancing  in  the  sunshine,  a  symbol  surely  of  their 
wayward,  unfettered  spirits.  A  little  way  off,  on  a  slope  among 
the  trees,  their  dark  tents  could  be  partially  seen. 

"  Lucky  beggars !  "  murmured  Dion,  as  he  threw  them  a 
few  small  coins,  while  Rosamund  smiled  at  them  and  waved 
her  hand  in  answer  to  their  greetings.  "  I  believe  it's  the  ideal 
Kfe  to  dwell  in  the  tents." 

"  It  seems  so  to-day." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  57 

"  Won't  it  to-morrow  ?     Won't  it  when  we  are  in  London  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  more  than  ever  then." 

Was  she  gently  evading  an  answer?  They  had  reached  the 
brow  of  the  hill  and  put  their  horses  to  a  canter.  The  white 
dust  settled  over  them.  They  were  like  millers  on  horseback 
as  they  left  the  pine  woods  behind  them.  But  the  touch  of  the 
dust  was  as  the  touch  of  nature  upon  their  faces  and  hands. 
They  would  not  have  been  free  of  it  as  they  rode  towards  Athens, 
and  came  to  the  region  of  the  vineyards,  of  the  olive  groves 
and  the  cypresses.  Now  and  then  they  passed  ramshackle 
cafes  made  of  boards  roughly  nailed  together  anyhow,  with  a 
straggle  of  vine  sprawling  over  them,  and  the  earth  for  a 
flooring.  Tables  were  set  out  before  them,  or  in  their  shadows; 
a  few  bottles  were  visible  within;  on  benches  or  stools  were 
grouped  Greeks,  old  and  young,  busily  talking,  no  doubt  about 
politics.  Carts  occasionally  passed  by  the  riders,  sending  out 
dust  to  mingle  with  theirs.  Turkeys  gobbled  at  them,  dogs 
barked  in  front  of  one-storied  houses.  They  saw  peasants  sit- 
ting sideways  on  pattering  donkeys,  and  now  and  then  a  man 
on  horseback.  By  thin  runlets  of  water  were  women,  chatter- 
ing as  they  washed  the  clothes  of  their  households.  Then 
again,  the  horses  came  into  the  bright  and  solitary  places  where 
the  cheerful  loneliness  of  Greece  held  sway. 

And  so,  at  last  they  cantered  into  the  outskirts  of  Athens 
when  the  evening  was  falling.  Another  day  had  slipped  from 
them.  But  both  felt  it  was  a  day  which  they  had  known  very 
well,  had  realized  with  an  unusual  fulness. 

"  It's  been  a  day  of  days!  "  Dion  said  that  evening. 

And  Rosamund  nodded  assent. 

A  child  had  been  in  that  day,  and,  with  a  child's  irresistible 
might,  had  altered  everything  for  them.  Now  Dion  knew  how 
Rosamund  would  be  with  a  child  of  her  own,  and  Rosamund 
knew  that  Dion  loved  her  more  deeply  because  he  had  seen 
her  with  a  child.  A  little  messenger  had  come  to  them  over 
the  sun-dried  plain  of  Marathon  bearing  a  gift  of  knowledge. 

The  next  day  they  spent  quietly.  In  the  morning  they  visited 
the  National  Museum,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  they  returned 
to  the  Acropolis. 

In  the  Museum  Rosamund  was  fascinated  by  the  tombs. 
She,  who  always  seemed  so  remote  from  sorrow,  who,  to  Dion, 
was  the  personification  of  vitality  and  joyousness,  was  deeply 
moved  by  the  record  of  death,  by  the  wonderfully  restrained, 
and  yet  wonderfully  frank,  suggestion  of  the  grief  of  those  who, 


58  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

centuries  ago,  had  mingled  their  dust  with  the  dust  of  the  rela- 
tions, the  lovers,  the  friends,  whom  they  had  mourned  for. 

"  What  a  lesson  this  is  for  me!  "  she  murmured  at  last,  after 
standing  for  a  long  while  wrapped  in  silence  and  contemplation. 

"  Why  for  you,  specially?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  He 
believed  she  was  hesitating,  undecided  whether  to  let  him  into 
a  new  chamber  of  her  being,  or  whether  to  close  a  half-opened 
door  against  him. 

"  It's  very  difficult  to  submit,  I  think,  for  some  of  us,"  she 
answered,  after  a  pause,  slowly.  "  Those  old  Greeks  must 
have  known  how  to  do  it." 

"  To  submit  to  sorrow?  " 

"  Yes,  to  a  great  sorrow.  Such  a  thing  is  like  an  attack  in 
the  dark.  If  I  am  attacked  I  want  to  strike  back  and  hurt." 

"  But  whom  could  you  reasonably  hurt  on  account  of  a  death 
that  came  in  the  course  of  nature?  That's  what  you  mean, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Yes." 

After  a  slight  hesitation  she  said: 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  think  we  can  hurt  God  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  Dion  answered. 

"  I  don't.     I  know  we  can." 

She  looked  again  at  the  tomb  before  which  they  were  stand- 
ing. It  showed  a  woman  seated  and  stretching  out  her  right 
arm,  which  a  woman  friend  was  touching.  In  the  background 
were  another,  contemplative,  woman  and  a  man  wearing  a 
chaplet  of  leaves,  his  hand  lifted  to  his  face.  For  epitaph 
there  was  one  word,  "  x<upe,"  cut  in  the  marble. 

"  '  Xcupc '   means   farewell,   doesn't  it?"   asked   Rosamund. 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  smile,  but  I  think  these  tombs  are  the  most 
beautiful  things  I  have  seen  in  Greece.  It's  a  miracle  —  their 
lack  of  violence.  What  a  noble  thing  grief  could  be.  That 
little  simple  '  xcu/oe  ' !  It's  great  to  be  able  to  give  up  the  dear- 
est thing  with  that  one  little  word.  But  I  couldn't  —  I 
couldn't." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  know,  because  I  didn't." 

She  said  nothing  more  on  the  subject  that  morning,  but  when 
they  were  on  the  Acropolis  waiting,  as  so  often  before,  for  the 
approach  of  the  evening,  she  returned  to  it.  Evidently  it  was 
haunting  her  that  day. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  59 

"  I  believe  giving  up  nobly  is  a  much  finer  thing  than  attain- 
ing nobly,"  she  said.  "  And  yet  attaining  wins  all  the  ap- 
plause, and  giving  up,  if  it  gets  anything,  only  gets  that  ugly 
tiling  —  pity." 

"  But  is  pity  an  ugly  thing  ?  "  said  Dion. 

He  had  a  little  stone  in  his  hand,  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  threw 
it  gently  towards  the  precipice,  taking  care  not  to  send  it  over 
the  edge. 

"  I  think  I  would  rather  have  anything  on  earth  from  people 
than  their  pity." 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  pity  you  because  I  loved  you?  " 

He  picked  up  another  stone  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  I  should  hate  it." 

He  had  lifted  his  hand  for  the  throw,  but  he  kept  hold  of 
the  stone. 

"  \Yhat,  pity  that  came  straight  out  of  love?  " 

"  Any  sort  of  pity." 

"  You  must  be  very  proud  —  much  prouder  than  I  am  then. 
If  I  were  unhappy  I  should  wish  to  have  pity  from  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  never  been  really  unhappy." 

Dion  laid  the  stone  down.     He  thought  hard  for  a  moment. 

"  Without  any  hope  at  all  of  a  change  back  to  happiness  — 
no,  actually  I  never  have." 

"  Ah,  then  you've  never  had  to  brace  up  and  see  if  you  could 
find  a  strong  voice  to  utter  your  '  xa'/°e  '  •  " 

She  spoke  with  firmness,  a  firmness  that  rang  like  true  metal 
struck  with  a  hammer  and  giving  back  sincerity. 

"  That  sounds  tremendously  Doric,"  he  said. 

His  lips  were  smiling,  but  there  was  an  almost  surprised 
expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  Dion,  do  you  know  you're  intuitive  to-day?  " 

"Ah,  your  training  —  your  training!  " 

"  Didn't  you  say  we  should  have  to  be  Doric  ourselves 
if ?" 

"  Come,  Rosamund,  it's  time  for  the  Parthenon." 

Once  more  they  went  over  the  uneven  ground  to  stand  before 
its  solemn  splendor. 

"  Shall  we  have  learnt  before  we  go?  "  said  Dion. 

"  It's  strange,  but  I  think  the  tombs  teach  me  more.  They're 
more  within  my  reach.  This  is  so  tremendous  that  it's  remote. 
Perhaps  a  man,  or  —  or  a  boy " 

She  looked  at  him. 

"A  boy?" 


6e  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes." 

He  drew  her  down.  She  clasped  her  hands,  that  looked  to 
him  so  capable  and  so  pure,  round  her  knees. 

"A  boy?     Go  on,  Rose." 

"  He  might  learn  his  lesson  here,  with  a  man  to  help  him. 
The  Parthenon's  tremendously  masculine.  Perhaps  women 
have  to  learn  from  the  gentleness  of  those  dear  tombs." 

Never  before  had  she  seemed  to  him  so  soft,  so  utterly  soft 
ef  nature. 

"  You've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  to-day  of  our  boy,  haven't 
you?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Suppose  we  did  have  a  boy  and  lost  him  ?  " 

"Lost  him?" 

Her  voice  sounded  suddenly  almost  hostile. 

"  Such  a  thing  has  happened  to  parents.  It  might  happen 
to  us." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  would  happen  to  me,"  Rosamund  said, 
with  a  sort  of  curious,  almost  cold  decision. 

"But  why  not?" 

"  What  made  you  think  of  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  what  you  said 
this  morning  about  grief,  and  then  about  bracing  up  and  finding 
a  firm  voice  to  utter  one's  '  xa'/°e-'  " 

"  You  don't  understand  what  a  woman  would  feel  who  lost 
her  child." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  do?  " 

"  Partly.  Quite  enough  to Don't  let  us  speak  about 

it  any  more." 

"  No.  There's  nothing  more  futile  than  imagining  horrors 
that  are  never  coming  upon  us." 

"  I  never  do  it,"  she  said,  with  resolute  cheerfulness.  "  But 
we  shall  very  soon  have  to  say  one  '  xa"lPe^  ' 

"To  the  Parthenon?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Say  it  to-night." 

She  turned  round  to  face  him, 

"To-night?     Why?" 

"  For  a  little  while." 

A  sudden  happy  idea  had  come  to  him.  A  shadow  had 
fallen  over  her  for  a  moment.  He  wanted  to  drive  it  away,  to 
set  her  again  in  the  full  sunshine  for  which  she  was  born,  and 
in  which,  if  he  could  have  his  will,  she  should  always  dwell. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  61 

"  You  wanted  to  take  me  away  somewhere." 

"  Yes.  You  must  see  a  little  more  of  Greece  before  we  go 
home.  Say  your  '  xa~LP^  Rosamund." 

She  did  not  know  what  was  in  his  mind,  but  she  obeyed  him, 
and,  looking  up  at  the  great  marble  columns,  glowing  with 
honey-color  and  gold  in  the  afternoon  light,  she  murmured: 


On  the  following  day  they  left  Athens  and  set  out  on  the 
journey  to  Olympia. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHY  are  you  bringing  me  to  Olympia  ?  " 
That  question,  unuttered  by  her  lips,  was  often 
in  Rosamund's  eyes  as  they  drew  near  to  the  green 
wilds  of  Elis.     Of  course  they  had  always  meant  to  visit  Olym- 
pia before  they  sailed  away  to  England,  but  she  knew  very  well 
that  Dion  had  some  special  purpose  in  his  mind,  and  that  it 
was  closely  connected  with  his  great  love  of  her.     She  had 
understood  that  on  the  Acropolis,  and  her  "  xalpt "  had  been 
an  act  of  submission  to  his  will  not  wholly  unselfish.     Her 
curiosity  was  awake. 

What  was  the  secret  of  Olympia? 

They  had  gone  by  train  to  Patras,  slept  there,  and  thence 
rode  on  horseback  to  Pyrgos  through  the  vast  vineyards  of  the 
Peloponnesus  —  vineyards  that  stretched  down  to  the  sea  and 
were  dotted  with  sentinel  cypresses.  The  heat  was  much 
greater  than  it  had  been  in  Athens.  Enormous  aloes  hedged 
gardens  from  which  came  scents  that  seemed  warm.  The 
sandy  soil,  turned  up  by  the  horses'  feet,  was  hot  to  the  touch. 
The  air  quivered,  and  was  shot  with  a  music  of  insects  faint 
but  pervasive. 

Pyrgos  was  suffocating  and  noisy,  but  Rosamund  was  amused 
by  democracy  at  close  quarters,  showing  its  naked  love  of  lib- 
erty. Her  strong  humanity  rose  to  the  occasion,  and  she  gave 
herself  with  a  smiling  willingness  to  the  streets,  in  which  men, 
women,  children  and  animals,  with  lungs  of  leather,  sent  forth 
their  ultimate  music.  Nevertheless,  she  was  glad  when  she 
and  Dion  set  out  again,  and  followed  the  banks  of  the  Alpheus, 


62  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

leaving  the  cries  of  the  city  behind  them.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  they  were  traveling  to  some  hidden  treasure,  secluded  in 
the  folds  of  a  green  valley  where  the  feet  of  men  seldom,  if  ever, 
came.  Dion's  eyes  told  her  that  they  were  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  secret  he  knew  of,  and  was  going  to  reveal 
to  her.  She  often  caught  him  looking  at  her  with  an  almost 
boyish  expression  of  loving  anticipation;  and  more  than  once 
he  laughed  happily  when  he  saw  her  question,  but  he  would 
not  give  her  an  answer. 

Peasants  worked  in  the  vineyards,  shoulder-high  in  the 
plants,  brown  and  sweating  in  the  glare.  Swarthy  children, 
with  intelligent  eyes,  often  with  delicate  noses,  and  those  pouting 
lips  which  are  characteristic  of  many  Greek  statues,  ran  to 
stare  at  them,  and  sometimes  followed  them  a  little  way,  but 
without  asking  for  alms.  Then  the  solitudes  took  them,  and 
they  wound  on  and  on,  with  their  guide  as  their  only  com- 
panion. 

He  was  a  gentle,  even  languid-looking  youth,  called  Nicholas 
Agathoulos,  who  was  a  native  of  Patras,  but  who  had  lived 
a  good  deal  in  Athens,  who  spoke  a  few  words  of  English  and 
French,  and  who  professed  a  deep  passion  for  Lord  Byron. 
Nicholas  rode  on  a  mule,  leading,  or  not  leading  as  the  case 
might  be  —  for  he  was  a  charmingly  careless  person  —  a  second 
mule  on  which  was  fastened  Rosamund's  and  Dion's  scanty 
luggage.  Rosamund,  like  a  born  vagabond,  was  content  to 
travel  in  this  glorious  climate  with  scarcely  any  impedimenta. 
When  Nicholas  was  looked  at  he  smiled  peacefully  under  his 
quiet  and  unpretending  black  mustache.  When  he  was  not 
looked  at  he  seemed  to  sleep  with  open  eyes.  He  never  sang 
or  whistled,  had  no  music  at  all  in  him;  but  he  could  quote 
stanzas  from  "  Don  Juan  "  in  Greek,  and,  when  he  did  that, 
he  woke  up,  sparks  of  fire  glowed  in  his  eyes,  and  his  employers 
realized  that  he  shared  to  the  full  the  patriotism  of  his  country- 
men. 

Did  he  know  the  secret  of  Olympia  which  Dion  was  conceal- 
ing so  carefully,  and  enjoying  so  much,  as  the  little  train  of 
pilgrims  wound  onwards  among  fruit  trees  and  shrubs  of  arbu- 
tus, penetrating  farther  and  ever  farther  into  a  region  sweet  and 
remote?  Of  course  he  must  know  it. 

"  I  shall  ask  Nicholas,"  Rosamund  said  once  to  Dion,  per- 
versely. 

"What?" 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  what." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  63 

His  face  was  a  map  of  innocence  as  he  touched  his  thin  horse 
with  the  whip  and  rode  forward  a  little  faster. 

"What  is  there  to  see  at  Olympia,  Nicholas?"  she  said, 
speaking  rather  loudly  in  order  that  Dion  might  hear. 

Nicholas  woke  up,  and  hastily,  in  a  melodious  voice,  quoted 
some  scraps  of  guide-book.  Rosamund  did  not  find  what  she 
wanted  among  them.  She  knew  already  about  the  ruins,  about 
the  Nike  of  Paeonius  and  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles.  So  she 
left  the  young  Greek  to  his  waking  dream,  and  possessed  her 
soul  in  a  patience  that  was  not  difficult.  She  liked  to  dwell 
in  anticipation.  And  she  felt  that  any  secret  this  land  was 
about  to  reveal  to  her  would  be,  must  be,  beautiful.  She  trusted 
Greece. 

"  We  aren't  far  off  now,"  said  Dion  presently,  as  they  rode 
up  the  valley  —  a  valley  secluded  from  the  world,  pastoral  and 
remote,  shaded  by  Judas  trees. 

"  How  peaceful  and  lovely  it  is." 

"  And  full  of  the  echoes  of  the  Pagan  feet  which  once  trod 
here." 

"  I  don't  hear  them,"  said  Rosamund,  "  and  I  am  listen- 
ing." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  never  hear  Pagan  echoes.  And  yet  you 
love  Greece." 

"  Yes.     But  I  have  nothing  Pagan  in  me.     I  know  that." 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  "  You  are  the  ideal  woman  to 
be  in  Greece  with.  If  I  don't  come  back  to  Greece  with  you,  I 
shall  never  come  back." 

They  rode  on.  Her  horse  was  following  his  along  the  wind- 
ings of  the  river.  Presently  she  said : 

"  Where  are  we  going  to  sleep  ?  Surely  there  isn't  a  possible 
inn  in  this  remoteness  ?  —  or  have  they  built  one  for  the  travelers 
who  come  here  in  winter  and  spring?  " 

"  Our  inn  will  be  a  little  above  Olympia." 

The  green  valley  seemed  closing  about  them,  as  if  anxious  to 
take  them  to  itself,  to  keep  them  in  its  closest  intimacy,  with  a 
gentle  jealousy.  Rosamund  had  a  sensation,  almost  voluptu- 
ous, of  yielding  to  the  pastoral  greenness,  to  the  warm  stillness, 
to  the  hush  of  the  delicate  wilds. 

"  Elis!  Elis!  "  she  whispered  to  herself.  "  I  am  riding  up 
into  Elis,  where  once  the  processions  passed  to  the  games,  where 
Nero  built  himself  a  mansion.  And  there's  a  secret  here  for 
me." 

Then  suddenly  there  came  into  her  mind  the  words  in  the 


64  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Paradise  "  which  she  had  been  dreaming  over  in  London  on 
the  foggy  day  when  Dion  had  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

"  Regnum  coelorum  violenza  pate 

da  caldo  amore  a  da  viva  speranza, 
Che  vince  la  divina  volontate." 

The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  suffereth  violence  from  warm  love 
and  living  hope  which  conquereth  the  Divine  will. 

It  was  strange  that  the  words  should  come  to  her  just  then. 
She  could  not  think  why  they  came.  But,  repeating  them  to 
herself,  she  felt  how  very  far  off  she  was  from  Paganism.  Yet 
she  had  within  her  warm  love  surely  and  living  hope.  Could 
such  things,  as  they  were  within  her,  ever  do  violence  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven?  She  looked  between  her  horse's  per- 
petually moving  ears  at  the  hollow  athletic  back  of  her  young 
husband.  If  she  had  not  married  she  would  have  given  rein 
to  deep  impulses  within  her  which  now  would  never  be  in- 
dulged. They  would  not  have  led  her  to  Greece.  If  she  had 
been  governed  by  them  she  would  never  have  been  drawn  on 
by  the  secret  of  Olympia.  How  strange  it  was  that,  within 
the  compass  of  one  human  being,  should  be  contained  two 
widely  differing  characters.  Well,  she  had  chosen,  and  hence- 
forth she  must  live  according  to  the  choice  she  had  made.  But 
how  would  she  have  been  in  the  other  life  of  which  she  had 
dreamed  so  often,  and  so  deeply,  in  her  hours  of  solitude?  She 
would  never  know  that.  She  had  chosen  the  warm  love  and  the 
living  hope,  but  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  should  never  suffer  vio- 
lence from  anything  she  had  diosen.  There  are  doubtless  many 
ways  of  consecrating  a  life,  of  rendering  service. 

They  came  into  a  scattered  and  dingy  hamlet.  Hills  rose 
about  it,  but  the  narrowing  valley  still  wound  on. 

"  We  are  close  to  the  ruins,"  said  Dion. 

"  Already!     Where  are  we  going  to  sleep?  " 

"Up  there!" 

He  pointed  to  a  steep  hill  that  was  set  sheer  above  the  val- 
ley. 

"  Go  on  with  the  mules,  Nicholas." 

Nicholas  rode  on,  smiling. 

"What's  that  building  on  the  hump?  " 

"The  Museum." 

"  I  wonder  why  they  put  the  inn  so  far  away." 

"  It  isn't  really  very  far,  not  many  minutes  from  here.  But 
the  way's  pretty  steep.  Now  then,  Rosamund!  " 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  65 

They  set  their  horses  to  the  task.  Nicholas  and  the  mules 
were  out  of  sight.  A  bend  of  the  little  track  had  hidden  them. 

"Why,  there's  a  village  up  here!  "  said  Rosamund,  as  they 
came  to  a  small  collection  of  houses  with  yards  and  rough  gar- 
dens and  scattered  outbuildings. 

"  Yes  —  Drouva.  Our  inn  is  just  beyond  it,  but  quite  sepa- 
rated from  it." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  They  don't  bother  very  much  about 
cleanliness  here,  I  should  think." 

He  was  smiling  at  her  now.  His  lips  were  twitching  under 
his  mustache,  and  his  eyes  seemed  trying  not  to  tell  something 
to  her. 

"  Surely  the  secret  isn't  up  here?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  still  smiling,  almost  laughing. 

They  were  now  beyond  the  village,  and  emerged  on  a  plateau 
of  rough  short  grass  which  seemed  to  dominate  the  world. 

"  This  is  the  top  of  the  hill  of  Drouva,"  said  Dion,  with  a 
ring  of  joy,  and  almost  of  pride,  in  his  voice.  "  And  there's  our 
inn,  the  Inn  of  Drouva." 

Rosamund  pulled  up  her  horse.  She  did  not  say  a  word. 
She  just  looked,  while  her  horse  lowered  his  head  and  sniffed 
the  air  in  through  his  twitching  nostrils.  Then  he  sent  forth  a 
quivering  neigh,  his  welcome  to  the  Inn  of  Drouva.  The  view 
was  immense,  but  Rosamund  was  not  looking  at  it.  A  small 
dark  object  not  far  off  in  the  foreground  of  this  great  picture 
held  her  eyes.  For  the  moment  she  saw  little  or  nothing  else. 

She  saw  a  dark,  peaked  tent  pitched  in  the  middle  of  the 
plateau.  Smoke  from  a  fire  curled  up  behind  it.  Two  or  three 
figures  moved  near  it.  Beyond,  Nicholas  was  unloading  the 
mules. 

She  dropped  the  cord  by  which  she  had  been  guiding  her 
horse  and  slipped  down  to  the  ground.  Her  legs  were  rather 
stiff  from  riding.  She  held  on  to  the  saddle  for  a  moment. 

"  A  camp?  "  she  said  at  last. 

Dion  was  beside  her. 

"  An  awfully  rough  one." 

"How  jolly!" 

She  said  the  words  almost  solemnly. 

"  Dion,  you  are  a  brick!  "  she  added,  after  a  pause.  "  I've 
never  stayed  in  camp  before.  A  real  brick!  But  you  always 
are." 

"  Aren't  you  coming  into  the  camp?  " 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  kept  him  back. 


66  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"No  —  wait!  What  did  you  mean  by  shaking  your  head 
when  I  asked  you  if  the  secret  was  up  here?  " 

"  This  isn't  the  real  secret.  It  wasn't  because  of  this  that 
I  asked  you  suddenly  on  the  Acropolis  to  say  '  xaLPf '  to  the 
Parthenon." 

"  There's  another  secret?  " 

"  There's  another  reason,  the  real  reason,  why  I  hurried  you 
to  Olympia.  But  I'm  going  to  let  you  find  it  out  for  yourself. 
I  shan't  tell  you  anything." 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  when ?  " 

"  You  will  know." 

"To-day?" 

"  Don't  you  think  we  might  stay  on  our  hill-top  till  to-mor- 
row? " 

"  Yes,  all  right.  It's  glorious  here;  I  won't  be  impatient. 
But  how  could  you  manage  to  get  the  tent  here  before  we 
came?  " 

"  We've  been  two  nights  on  the  way,  Patras  and  Pyrgos. 
That  gave  plenty  of  time  to  the  magician  to  work  the  spell. 
Come  along." 

This  time  she  did  not  hold  him  back.  Her  eagerness  was 
as  great  as  his.  Certainly  it  was  a  very  ordinary  camp, 
scarcely,  in  fact,  a  camp  at  all.  The  tent  was  small  and  of 
the  roughest  kind,  but  there  were  two  neat  little  camp-beds 
within  it,  with  their  toes  planted  on  the  short  dry  grass.  In 
the  iron  washhand  stand  were  a  shining  white  basin  and  a  jug 
filled  with  clear  water.  There  was  a  cake  of  remarkable  pink 
soap  with  a  strange  and  piercing  scent;  there  was  a  "tooth 
glass  " ;  there  was  a  straw  mat. 

"What  isn't  there?"  cried  Rosamund,  who  was  almost  as 
delighted  as  a  child. 

A  grave  and  very  handsome  gentleman  from  Athens,  Achilles 
Stavros  by  name,  received  her  congratulations  with  a  classical 
smile  of  satisfaction. 

"He's  even  got  a  genuine  Greek  nose  for  the  occasion!" 
Rosamund  said  delightedly  to  Dion,  when  Achilles  retired  for 
a  moment  to  give  some  instructions  about  tea  to  the  cook. 
"  Where  did  you  find  him?  " 

"That's  my  secret." 

"  I  never  realized  how  delicious  a  camp  was  before.  My 
wildest  dreams  are  surpassed." 

As  they  looked  at  the  two  small,  hard  chairs  with  straw 
bottoms  which  were  solemnly  set  out  side  by  side  facing  the 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  67 

view,  and  upon  which  Achilles  expected  them  to  sink  voluptu- 
ously for  the  ritual  of  tea,  they  broke  into  laughter  at  Rosa- 
mund's exaggerated  expressions  of  delight.  But  directly  she 
was  able  to  stop  laughing  she  affirmed  with  determination : 

"  I  don't  care  what  anybody  says,  or  thinks;  I  repeat  it  " — 
she  glanced  from  the  straw  mat  to  the  cake  of  anemic  pink 
soap  — "  my  wildest  dreams  are  surpassed.  To  think  " —  she 
spread  out  her  hands  — "  only  to  think  of  finding  a  tooth  glass 
here !  It's  —  it's  admirable !  " 

She  turned  upon  him  an  almost  fanatical  eye,  daring  con- 
tradiction; and  they  both  laughed  again,  long  and  loud  like  two 
children  who,  suddenly  aware  of  a  keen  physical  pleasure,  pro- 
long it  beyond  all  reasonable  bounds. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  have  for  tea?  "  she  asked. 

"  Tea,"  Dion  cried. 

"  You  ridiculous  creature !  " 

From  a  short  distance,  Achilles  gazed  upon  the  merriment  of 
these  newly-married  English  travelers.  Nobody  had  told  him 
they  were  newly  married;  he  just  knew  it,  had  known  it  at  a 
glance.  As  he  watched,  the  laughter  presently  died  away,  and 
he  saw  the  two  walk  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  small  plateau, 
then  stand  still  to  gaze  at  the  view. 

The  prospect  from  the  hill  of  Drouva  above  Olympia  is  very 
great,  and  all  Rosamund's  inclination  to  merriment  died  out  of 
her  as  she  looked  upon  it.  Even  her  joy  in  the  camp  was  for- 
gotten for  a  moment. 

Upon  their  plateau,  sole  guests  of  the  bareness,  stood  two 
small  olive  trees,  not  distorted  by  winds.  Rosamund  leaned 
against  one  of  them  as  she  gazed,  put  her  arms  round  it  with 
a  sort  of  affectionate  carelessness  that  was  half-protective,  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  You  dear  little  tree !  How  nice  of  you  to  be 
here.  But  you  almost  want  taking  care  of."  Then  the  tree 
was  forgotten,  and  the  Hellenic  beauty  reigned  over  her  spirit, 
as  she  gazed  upon  the  immense  pastoral  bounded  by  moun- 
tains and  the  sea;  a  green  wilderness  threaded  by  a  serpentine 
river  of  silver  —  a  far-flung  river  which  lingered  on  its  way, 
journeying  hither  and  thither,  making  great  curves  as  if  it  loved 
the  wilderness  and  wished  to  know  it  well,  to  know  all  of  it  be- 
fore being  merged  irrevocably  with  the  sea. 

"  Those  are  the  valleys  of  the  Kladeos  and  the  Alpheios." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  that  far-off  Isle  is  the  Island  of  Zante." 

"  Of  Zante,"  she  repeated. 


68  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

After  a  long  pause  she  said: 

"  You  know  those  words  somewhere  in  the  Bible  — '  the  wil- 
derness and  the  solitary  places  '  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I've  always  loved  them,  just  those  words.  Even  when  I 
was  quite  a  child  I  liked  to  say  them.  And  I  remember  once, 
when  I  was  staying  at  Sherrington,  we  drove  over  to  Welsley 
Cathedral.  Canon  Wilton  took  us  into  the  stalls.  It  was  a 
week-day  and  there  were  very  few  people.  The  anthem  was 
Wesley's  '  The  Wilderness.'  I  had  never  heard  it  before,  and 
when  I  heard  those  words  —  my  words  —  being  sung,  I  had 
such  a  queer  thrill.  I  wanted  to  cry  and  I  was  startled.  To 
most  people,  I  suppose,  the  word  wilderness  suggests  something 
dreary  and  parched,  ugly  desolation." 

"  Yes.     The  scapegoat  was  driven  out  into  the  wilderness." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  take  my  sin  into  the  wilderness  than  any 
where  else.  Purification  might  be  found  there.'' 

"  Your  sin!  "  he  said.     "  As  if "     He  was  silent. 

Zante  seemed  sleeping  in  the  distance  of  the  Ionian  Sea, 
far  away  as  the  dream  from  which  one  has  waked,  touched  with 
a  dream's  mystic  remoteness.  The  great  plain,  stretching  to 
mountains  and  sea,  vast  and  green  and  lonely  —  but  with  the 
loneliness  that  smiles,  desiring  nothing  else  —  seemed  unin- 
habited. Perhaps  there  were  men  in  it,  laboring  among  the 
vineyards  or  toiling  among  the  crops,  women  bending  over  the 
earth  by  which  they  lived,  or  washing  clothes  on  the  banks  of 
the  river.  Rosamund  did  not  look  for  them  and  did  not  see 
them.  In  the  green  landscape,  over  which  from  a  distance  the 
mountains  kept  their  quiet  and  deeply  reserved  watch,  she  de- 
tected no  movement.  Even  the  silver  of  the  river  seemed  im- 
mobile, as  if  its  journey  ings  were  now  stilled  by  an  afternoon 
spell. 

"  It's  as  empty  as  the  plain  of  Marathon,  but  how  much 
greater!  "  she  said  at  last 

"  At  Marathon  there  was  the  child." 

"  Yes,  and  here  there's  not  even  a  child." 

She  sighed. 

"  I  wonder  what  one  would  learn  to  be  if  one  lived  on  the 
hill  of  Drouva?  "  she  said. 

"  It  will  be  much  more  beautiful  at  sunset.  We  are  look- 
ing due  west.  Soon  we  shall  have  the  moon  rising  behind  us." 

"  What  memories  I  shall  carry  away!  " 

"  And  I." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  69 

"  You  were  here  before  alone?  " 

"  Yes.  I  walked  up  from  the  village  just  before  sunset  after 
a  long  day  among  the  ruins.  I  —  I  didn't  know  then  of  your 
existence.  That  seems  strange." 

But  she  was  gazing  at  the  view,  and  now  with  an  earnest- 
ness in  which  there  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  hint  of  effort,  as  if 
she  were,  perhaps,  urging  imagination  to  take  her  away  and  to 
make  her  one  with  that  on  which  she  looked.  It  struck  him 
just  then  that,  since  they  had  been  married,  she  had  changed  a 
good  deal,  or  developed.  A  new  dreaminess  had  been  added 
to  her  power  and  her  buoyancy  which,  at  times,  made  her  very 
different  from  the  radiant  girl  he  had  won. 

"  The  Island  of  Zante!  "  she  said  once  more,  with  a  last  look 
at  the  sea,  as  they  turned  away  in  answer  to  the  grave  summons 
of  Achilles.  "  Ah,  what  those  miss  who  never  travel !  " 

"  And  yet  I  remember  your  saying  once  that  you  had  very 
little  of  the  nomad  in  you,  and  even  something  about  the  cat's 
instinct." 

"  Probably  I  meant  the  cat's  instinct  to  say  nasty  things. 
Every  woman 


"  No,  what  you  meant 


He  began  actually  to  explain,  but  her  "Puss,  Puss,  Puss!  " 
stopped  him.  Her  dream  was  over,  and  her  laugh  rang  out  in- 
fectiously as  they  returned  to  the  tent. 

The  tea  was  fairly  bad,  but  she  defended  its  merits  with 
energy,  and  munched  biscuits  with  an  excellent  appetite. 
Afterwards  she  smoked  a  cigarette  and  Dion  his  pipe,  sitting 
on  the  ground  and  leaning  against  the  tent  wall.  In  vain 
Achilles  drew  her  attention  to  the  chairs.  Rosamund  stretched 
out  her  long  limbs  luxuriously  and  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  a  school-teacher,  Achilles,"  she  said. 

And  Dion  had  to  explain  what  she  meant  perhaps  —  only 
perhaps,  for  he  wasn't  sure  about  it  himself  —  to  that  classical 
personage. 

"  Those  chairs  fight  against  the  whole  thing,"  she  said,  when 
Achilles  was  gone. 

"  I'll  hide  them,"  said  Dion. 

He  was  up  in  a  moment,  caught  hold  of  the  chairs,  gripping 
one  in  each  hand,  and  marched  off  with  them.  When  he  came 
back  Rosamund  was  no  longer  sitting  on  the  ground  by  the 
tent  wall.  She  had  slipped  away.  He  looked  round.  She 
must  have  gone  beyond  the  brow  of  the  hill,  for  she  was  not  on 
the  plateau.  He  hesitated,  pulling  hard  at  his  pipe.  He  knew 


70  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

her  curious  independence,  knew  that  sometimes  she  wanted  to 
be  alone.  No  doubt  she  had  gone  to  look  at  the  great  view 
from  some  hidden  place.  Well,  then,  he  ought  not  to  try  to 
find  her,  he  ought  to  respect  her  wish  to  be  by  herself.  But 
this  evening  it  hurt  him.  As  he  stood  there  he  felt  wounded, 
for  he  remembered  telling  her  that  the  great  view  would  be 
much  more  beautiful  at  sunset  when  the  moon  would  be  rising 
behind  them.  The  implication  of  course  had  been,  "  Wait  a 
little  and  I'll  show  you."  It  was  he  who  had  chosen  the  place 
for  the  camp,  he  who  had  prepared  the  surprise.  Perhaps  fool- 
ishly, he  had  thought  of  the  whole  thing,  even  of  the  plain,  the 
river,  the  mountains,  the  sea  and  the  Island  of  Zante,  as  a  sort 
of  possession  which  he  was  going  gloriously  to  share  with  her. 

And  now !  He  felt  deprived,  almost  wronged.  The  sky 

was  changing.  He  turned  and  looked  to  the  east.  Above 
Olympia,  in  a  clear  and  tremulous  sky,  a  great  silver  moon  was 
rising.  It  was  his  hour,  and  she  had  hidden  herself. 

Again,  at  that  moment,  Dion  felt  almost  afraid  of  his  love. 

His  pipe  had  gone  out.  He  took  it  from  his  lips,  bent,  and 
knocked  out  the  tobacco  against  the  heel  of  his  boot.  He  was 
horribly  disappointed,  but  he  was  not  going  to  search  for  Rosa- 
mund; nor  was  he  ever  going  to  let  her  know  of  his  disappoint- 
ment. Perhaps  by  concealing  it  he  would  kill  it.  He  thrust 
his  pipe  into  his  pocket,  hesitated,  then  walked  a  little  way 
from  the  camp  and  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  What  rot 
it  was  his  always  wanting  to  share  everything  now.  Till  he 
met  Rosamund  he  had  always  thought  only  women  could  never 
be  happy  unless  they  shared  their  pleasures,  and  preferably 
with  a  man.  Love  apparently  could  play  the  very  devil,  bridge 
the  gulf  between  sexes,  make  a  man  who  was  thoroughly  mas- 
culine in  all  his  tastes  and  habits  have  "  little  feelings  "  which 
belonged  properly  only  to  women. 

Doric!  Suddenly  the  word  jumped  up  in  his  mind,  and  a 
vision  of  the  Parthenon  columns  rose  before  his  imagination, 
sternly  glorious,  almost  with  the  strength  of  a  menace.  He 
set  his  teeth  together  and  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  and  a  backj 
slider. 

Rosamund  and  he  were  to  be  Doric.  Well,  this  evening  he 
didn't  know  exactly  what  he  was,  but  he  certainly  was  not 
Doric. 

Just  then  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  shot.  He  did  not  know 
what  direction  it  came  from,  but,  fantastically  enough,  it  seemed 
to  be  a  comment  on  his  thought,  a  brusk,  decisive  exclama- 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  71 

tion  flung  at  him  from  out  of  the  silent  evening.  "  Sentimen- 
talist! Take  that,  and  get  out  of  your  mush  of  feeling!  "  As 
he  recognized  it  —  he  now  forced  himself  to  that  sticking-point 
—  to  be  a  mush,  the  shot's  comment  fell  in,  of  course,  with  his 
own  view  of  the  matter. 

He  sat  still  for  a  moment,  thinking  of  the  shot,  and  prob- 
ably expecting  it  to  be  repeated.  It  was  not  repeated.  A  great 
silence  prevailed,  the  silence  of  the  Hellenic  wild  held  in  the 
hand  of  evening.  And  abruptly,  perhaps  from  that  large  and 
pervasive  silence,  Dion  caught  a  coldness  of  fear.  All  his  per- 
ceptions rushed  upon  him,  an  acute  crowd.  He  sprang  up,  put 
his  hand  to  his  revolver.  Rosamund  out  alone  somewhere  in 
the  loneliness  of  Greece  —  evening  —  a  shot ! 

He  was  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  towards  the  west  in  a  mo- 
ment. All  respect  for  Rosamund's  evening  whim,  all  remem- 
brance of  his  own  proper  pride,  was  gone  from  him. 

"  Rosamund!  "  he  called;  "  Rosamund!  " 

"  Here !  "  replied  her  strong  voice  from  somewhere  a  little 
way  below  him. 

And  he  saw  her  standing  on  the  hillside  and  looking  down- 
wards. He  thrust  his  revolver  back  into  his  pocket  quickly. 
Already  his  pride  was  pushing  its  head  up  again.  He  stood 
still,  looking  down  on  her. 

"It's  all  right,  is  it?" 

This  time  she  lifted  her  head  and  turned  her  face  up  to  him. 

"All  right?" 

"  I  heard  a  shot." 

He  saw  laughter  dawning  in  her  face. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say ?  " 

She  laughed  frankly. 

"  Come  down  here!  " 

He  joined  her. 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Did  you,  or  didn't  you,  think  I'd  been  attacked  by  Greek 
brigands  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not !  But  I  heard  a  shot,  and  it  just  struck 
me "  . 

At  that  moment  he  was  almost  ashamed  of  loving  her  so 
much. 

"  Well,  there's  the  brigand,  and  I  do  believe  he's  going  to 
shoot  again.  The  ruffian!  Yes,  he's  taking  aim!  Oh,  Dion, 
seek  cover." 

Still  laughing,  she  shrank  against  him.     He  put  one  arm 


72 

round  her  shoulder  bruskly,  and  his  hand  closed  on  her 
tightly.  A  little  way  below  them,  relieved  with  a  strange  and 
romantic  distinctness  against  the  evening  light,  in  which  now 
there  was  a  strong  suggestion  of  gold,  was  a  small  figure, 
straight,  active  —  a  figure  of  the  open  air  and  the  wide  spaces 
—  with  a  gun  to  its  right  shoulder.  A  shot  rang  out. 

"  He's  got  it,"  said  Rosamund. 

And  there  was  a  note  of  admiring  praise  in  her  voice. 

"  That  child's  a  dead  shot,"  she  added.  "  It's  quail  he's 
after,  I  believe.  Look!  He's  picking  it  up." 

The  small  black  figure  bent  quickly  down,  after  running  for- 
ward a  little  way. 

"  He  retrieves  as  well  as  he  shoots.  Shall  we  go  to  him  and 
see  whether  it's  quail?  " 

"  Another  child,"  said  Dion. 

He  still  had  his  arm  round  her  shoulder. 

"  Why  did  you  come  here?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  look  at  the  evening  coming  to  me  over  the  wilderness. 
But  he  made  me  forget  it  for  a  moment." 

Dion  was  staring  at  her  now. 

"  I  believe  a  child  could  make  you  forget  anything,"  he  said. 

"  Let's  go  to  him." 

The  gold  of  the  evening  was  strengthening  and  deepening. 
The  vast  view,  which  was  the  background  to  the  child's  little 
figure,  was  losing  its  robe  of  green  and  of  blue,  green  of  the 
land,  blue  of  the  sea,  was  putting  on  velvety  darkness  and  gold. 
The  serpentine  river  was  a  long  band  of  gold  flung  out,  as 
if  by  a  careless  enchanter,  towards  the  golden  sea  in  which 
Zante  was  dreaming.  Remote  and  immense  this  land  had 
seemed  in  the  full  daytime,  a  tremendous  pastoral  deserted 
by  men,  sufficient  to  itself  and  existing  only  for  its  own  beauty. 
Now  it  existed  for  a  child.  The  human  element  had  caused 
nature,  as  it  were,  to  recede,  to  take  the  second  place.  A  child, 
bending  down  to  pick  up  a  shot  quail,  then  straightening  up 
victoriously,  held  the  vast  panorama  in  submission,  as  if  he 
had  quietly  given  out  the  order,  "  Make  me  significant."  And 
Rosamund,  who  had  stolen  away  to  meet  the  evening,  was  now 
only  intent  on  knowing  whether  the  shot  bird  was  a  quail  or 
not. 

It  was  a  quail,  and  a  fat  one. 

When  they  came  to  the  boy  they  found  him  a  barefooted 
urchin,  with  tattered  coarse  clothes  and  densely  thick,  uncov- 
ered black  hair  growing  down  almost  to  his  fiery  young  eyes, 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  73 

which  stared  at  them  proudly.  There  was  a  wild  look  in  those 
eyes  never  to  be  found  in  the  eyes  of  a  dweller  in  cities,  a  wild 
grace  in  his  figure,  and  a  complete  self-possession  in  his  whole 
bearing.  The  quail  just  shot  he  had  in  his  hand.  Another 
was  stuffed  into  the  large  pocket  of  his  jacket.  He  pulled  it 
out  and  showed  it  to  them,  reading  at  a  glance  the  admiration 
in  Rosamund's  eyes.  Dion  held  out  a  hand  to  the  boy's  gun, 
but  at  this  his  manner  changed,  he  clutched  it  tightly,  moved  a 
step  or  two  back,  and  scowled. 

"  He's  a  regular  young  savage,"  said  Dion. 

"  I  like  him  as  he  is.  Besides,  why  should  he  give  his  gun 
to  a  stranger?  He  knows  nothing  about  us." 

"  You're  immense!  "  said  Dion,  laughing. 

"  Let's  have  the  quail  for  our  dinner." 

"  D'you  expect  him  to  give  them  to  us  without  a  stand-up 
fight  and  probably  bloodshed?  For  he's  armed,  unfortu- 
nately! " 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous.  Look  here,  Dion,  you  go  off  for  a 
minute,  and  leave  him  with  me.  I  think  you  get  on  his  nerves." 

"Well,  I'm !" 

But  he  went.  He  left  the  two  figures  together,  and  pres- 
ently saw  them  both  from  a  distance  against  the  vastness  of 
the  gold.  Bushes  and  shrubs,  and  two  or  three  giant  pine  trees, 
between  the  summit  of  Drouva  and  the  plain,  showed  black, 
and  the  figures  of  woman  and  child  were  almost  ebon.  Dion 
watched  them.  He  could  not  see  any  features.  The  two  were 
now  like  carved  things  which  could  move,  and  only  by  their 
movements  could  they  tell  him  anything.  The  gun  over  the 
boy's  shoulder  was  like  a  long  finger  pointing  to  the  west  where 
a  redness  was  creeping  among  the  gold.  The  great  moon 
climbed  above  Drouva.  Bluish-gray  smoke  came  from  the 
camp-fire  at  a  little  distance.  It  ascended  without  wavering 
straight  up  in  the  windless  evening.  Far  down  in  the  hidden 
valley,  behind  Dion  and  below  the  small  village,  shadows  were 
stealing  through  quiet  Elis,  shadows  were  coming  to  shroud  the 
secret  that  was  held  in  the  shrine  of  Olympia.  A  slight  sound 
of  bells  stole  up  on  the  stillness  from  somewhere  below,  some- 
where not  far  from  those  two  ebon  figures.  And  this  sound, 
suggestive  of  moving  animals  coming  from  pasture  to  protected 
places  for  the  night,  put  a  heart  in  the  breast  of  this  pastoral. 
Thin  was  the  sound  and  delicate,  fit  music  for  Greece  in  the 
fragile  evening.  As  Dion  listened  to  it,  he  looked  at  that  black 
finger  below  him  pointing  to  the  redness  in  the  west.  Then  he 


74  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

remembered  it  was  a  gun,  and,  for  an  instant,  looking  at  the  red, 
he  thought  of  the  color  of  fresh  blood. 

At  this  moment  the  tall  figure,  Rosamund,  took  hold  of  the 
gun,  and  the  two  figures  moved  away  slowly  down  the  winding 
track  in  the  hill,  and  were  hidden  at  a  turning  of  the  path. 

Almost  directly  a  third  shot  rang  out.  The  young  dweller 
in  the  wilderness  was  allowing  Rosamund  to  give  a  taste  of  her 
skill  with  the  gun. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ROSAMUND  came  back  to  the  camp  that  evening  with 
Dirmikis, —  so  the  boy  of  the  wilderness  was  called, — 
and  five  quail,  three  of  them  to  her  gun.  She  was 
radiant,  and  indeed  had  an  air  almost  of  triumph.  Her  eyes 
were  sparkling,  her  cheeks  were  glowing;  she  looked  like  a  beau- 
tiful schoolgirl  as  she  walked  in  over  the  plateau  with  the  sun- 
set flushing  scarlet  behind  her,  and  the  big  moon  coming  to 
meet  her.  Dirmikis,  at  her  side,  carried  the  quail  upside  down 
in  his  brown  hands.  Rosamund  had  the  gun  under  her  right 
arm. 

"  It's  a  capital  gun,"  she  called  out  to  Dion.  "  I  got  three. 
Here,  Dirmikis," —  she  turned  to  the  boy, — "  show  them." 

"Does  he  understand  English?" 

"  No,  but  he  understands  me !  "  she  retorted  with  pride. 
"Look  there!" 

Dirmikis  held  up  the  birds,  smiling  a  savage  smile. 

"  Aren't  they  fat?  Feel  them,  Dion!  The  three  fattest  ones 
fell  to  my  gun,  but  don't  tell  him." 

She  sketched  a  delicious  wink,  looking  about  sixteen. 

"  I  really  have  a  good  eye,"  she  added,  praising  herself  with 
gusto.  "  It's  no  use  being  over-modest,  is  it?  If  one  has  a 
gift,  well,  one  just  has  it.  Here,  Dirmikis!  " 

She  gave  his  gun  carefully  to  the  barefooted  child. 

"  He's  a  little  stunner,  and  so  chivalrous.  I  never  met  a 
boy  I  liked  more.  Do  give  him  a  nice  present,  Dion,  and  let 
him  feed  in  the  camp  if  he  likes." 

"  Well,  what  next?     What  am  I  to  give  him?  " 

"  Nothing  dressy.  He  isn't  a  manikin,  he's  a  real  Doric 
boy." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  75 

She  slapped  Dirmikis  on  the  back  with  a  generous  hand.  He 
smiled  radiantly,  this  time  without  any  savagery. 

"  The  sort  of  boy  who'll  be  of  some  use  in  the  world." 

"  I'll  give  him  a  tip." 

Rosamund  seemed  about  to  assent  when  an  idea  struck  her, 
as  she  afterwards  said,  "  with  the  force  of  a  bomb." 

"  I  know  what  he'll  like  better  than  anything." 

"Well?" 

"  Your  revolver,  to  be  sure !  " 

"My  revolver  to  be  suren't!  "  exclaimed  Dion  passionately, 
inventing  a  negative.  "  I  bought  it  at  great  cost  to  defend  you 
with,  not  for  the  endowment  of  a  half -naked  varmint  from  tha 
wilderness  under  Drouva." 

"  Be  careful,  Dion;  you're  insulting  a  Doric  boy!  " 

"  Here  —  I'll  insult  him  with  a  ten-lepta  piece." 

"  Don't  be  mean.  Bribe  him  thoroughly  if  you're  going  to 
bribe  him.  We  go  shooting  together  again  to-morrow  even- 
ing." 

"Do  you  indeed?" 

"  Yes,  directly  after  tea.  It's  all  arranged.  Dirmikis  sug- 
gested it  with  the  most  charming  chivalry,  and  I  gave  yes  for 
an  answer.  So  we  must  keep  on  good  terms  with  him  at  what- 
ever cost." 

She  cocked  up  her  chin  and  walked  exultantly  into  the  tent. 
A  minute  afterwards  there  rang  out  to  the  evening  a  warm  con- 
tralto voice  singing: 


"  Des  anges,  des  anges,  des  anges, 

Pour  emporter  dans  1' ether 
Les  petits  enfants  etranges 
Qui  ne  veulent  pas  rester." 


Dirmikis  looked  at  the  tent  and  then  at  Dion  with  an  air 
of  profound  astonishment.  The  quail  dropped  from  his  hands, 
and  he  did  not  even  snatch  at  them  as  he  listened  to  the  remark- 
able sounds  which,  he  could  not  doubt,  flowed  from  his  Ama- 
zon. His  brows  came  down  over  his  fiery  eyes,  and  he  seemed 
to  stand  at  gaze  like  an  animal,  half-fascinated  and  half-sus- 
picious. The  voice  died  away  and  was  followed  by  a  sound  of 
pouring  water.  Then  Dirmikis  accepted  two  ten-lepta  pieces 
and  picked  up  the  quail.  Dion  introduced  him  to  the  cook,  and 
it  was  understood  that  he  should  be  fed  in  the  camp,  and  that 
the  quail  should  form  part  of  the  evening  meal. 

Very  good  they  proved  to  be,  cooked  in  leaves  with  the  ad- 


76  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

dition  of  some  fried  slices  of  fat  ham.  Rosamund  exulted  again 
as  she  ate  them,  recognizing  the  birds  she  had  shot  "  by  the 
taste." 

"  This  is  one!  Aren't  mine  different  from  Dirmikis's?  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  So  much  more  succulent!  " 

"  Naturally,  you  great  baby !  " 

"  Life  is  glorious!  "  she  exclaimed  resonantly.  "  To  eat  one's 
own  bag  on  the  top  of  Drouva  under  the  moon!  Oh!  " 

She  looked  at  the  moon,  then  bent  over  her  plate  of  metal- 
ware  which  was  set  on  the  tiny  folding-table.  In  her  joy  she 
was  exactly  like  a  big  child. 

"  I  wonder  how  many  I  shall  get  to-morrow.  I  got  my  eye 
in  at  the  very  start.  Really,  Dion,  you  know,  I'm  a  gifted  crea- 
ture. It  isn't  every  one " 

And  she  ran  on,  laughing  at  herself,  reveling  in  her  whim- 
sical pretense  of  conceit  till  dinner  was  over. 

"  Now  a  cigarette !  Never  have  I  enjoyed  any  meal  so  much 
as  this!  It's  only  out  of  doors  that  one  gets  hold  of  the  real 
joie  de  vivre." 

"  You're  never  without  it,  thank  God,"  returned  Dion,  strik- 
ing a  match  for  her. 

So  still  was  the  evening  that  the  flame  burned  steadily  even 
upon  that  height  facing  immensities.  Rosamund  leaned  to  it 
with  the  cigarette  between  her  lips.  Her  face  was  browned  by 
the  sun.  She  looked  rather  like  a  splendid  blonde  gipsy,  with 
loose  yellow  hair  and  the  careless  eyes  of  those  who  dwell  under 
smiling  heavens.  She  sent  out  a  puff  of  cigarette  smoke,  di- 
recting it  with  ardor  to  the  moon  which  now  rode  high  above 
them. 

"  I'd  like  to  catch  up  nature  in  my  arms  to-night,"  she  said. 
"  Come,  Dion,  let's  go  a  little  way." 

She  was  up,  and  put  her  arm  through  his  like  a  comrade. 
He  squeezed  her  arm  against  his  side  and,  strolling  there  in  the 
night  on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  she  talked  at  first  with  almost  tu- 
multuous energy,  with  an  energy  as  of  an  Amazon  who  cared  for 
the  things  of  the  soul  as  much  as  for  the  things  of  the  body. 
To-night  her  body  and  soul  seemed  on  the  same  high  level  of 
intensity. 

At  first  she  talked  of  the  present,  of  their  life  in  Greece  and 
of  what  it  had  meant  to  her,  what  it  had  done  for  her;  and  then, 
always  with  her  arm  through  Dion's,  she  began  to  talk  of  the 
future. 

"  We've  got  to  go  away  from  all  this,  but  let  us  cany  it 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  77 

with  us;  you  know,  as  one  can  carry  things  that  one  has  really 
gathered  up,  really  got  hold  of.  It  will  mean  a  lot  to  us  after- 
wards in  England,  in  our  regular  humdrum  life.  Not  that  life's 
ever  humdrum.  We  must  take  Drouva  to  England,  and  Mara- 
thon, and  the  view  from  the  Acropolis,  and  the  columns  of  the 
Parthenon  above  all  those,  and  the  tombs." 

"  But  they're  sad." 

"  We  must  take  them.  I'm  quite  sure  the  way  to  make  life 
splendid,  noble,  what  it  is  meant  to  be  to  each  of  us,  is  to  press 
close  against  one's  heart  all  that  is  sent  to  one,  the  sorrows  as 
well  as  the  joys.  Everything  one  tries  to  keep  at  arm's  length 
hurts  one." 

"Sins?" 

"  Sins,  Dion?     I  said  what  is  sent  to  us." 

"Don't  you  think ?" 

"  Sins  are  never  sent  to  us,  we  always  have  to  go  and  fetch 
them.  It's  like  that  poor  old  chemist  going  round  the  corner  in 
the  fog  with  a  jug  for  what  is  ruining  his  life." 

"  What  poor  old  chemist?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  great  friend  of  mine  in  London  —  Mr.  Thrush.  You 
shall  know  him  some  day.  Oh  —  but  London!  Now,  Dion, 
can  we,  you  and  I,  live  perpetually  in  London  after  all  this  ?  " 

"  Well,  dearest,  I  must  stick  close  to  business." 

"  I  know  that.  And  we've  got  the  little  house.  But  later 
on?" 

"  And  your  singing,  your  traveling  all  over  the  place  with  a 
maid!" 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall.     To-night  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  shall." 

She  stood  still  abruptly,  and  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  in  a  different  and  less  exu* 
berant  voice,  and  with  a  changed  and  less  physical  manner — • 
"  don't  you  think  sometimes,  in  exceptional  hours,  one  can  feel 
what  is  to  come,  what  is  laid  up  for  one?  I  do.  This  is  an 
exceptional  hour.  We  are  on  the  heights  and  it's  very  won- 
derful. Well,  perhaps  to-night  we  can  feel  what  is  coming. 
Let's  try." 

"How?" 

"  Let's  just  be  quiet,  and  give  ourselves  up  to  the  hill  of 
Drouva,  and  Greece,  and  the  night,  and  —  and  what  surrounds 
and  permeates  us  and  all  this." 

With  a  big  and  noble  gesture  she  indicated  the  sleeping  world 
far  below  them,  breathless  under  the  moon;  the  imperceptible 
valleys  merged  in  the  great  plain  through  which  the  river,  sil- 


78  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ver  once  more,  moved  unsleeping  between  its  low-lying  banks 
to  the  sea ;  the  ranges  of  mountains  which  held  themselves  apart 
in  the  night,  a  great  company,  reserved  and  almost  austere,  yet 
trodden  with  confidence  by  the  feet  of  those  fairies  who  haunt 
the  ancient  lands;  the  sea  which  drew  down  the  moon  as  a  lover 
draws  down  his  mistress;  Zante  riding  the  sea  like  a  shadow  in 
harbor. 

And  they  were  silent.  Dion  had  a  sensation  of  consciously 
giving  himself,  almost  as  a  bather,  to  the  sea.  Did  he  feel  what 
was  coming  to  him  and  to  this  girl  at  his  side,  who  was  part 
of  him,  and  yet  who  was  alone,  whose  arm  clasped  his,  yet 
whose  soul  dwelt  far  off  in  its  own  remoteness?  Would  the 
years  draw  them  closer  and  closer  together,  knit  them  together, 
through  greater  knowledge,  through  custom,  through  shared 
joys  and  beliefs,  through  common  beliefs,  through  children, 
till  they  were  as  branches  growing  out  of  one  stem  firmly  rooted  ? 

He  gave  himself  and  gave  himself,  or  tried  to  give  himself 
in  the  silence.  Yet  he  could  not  have  said  truly  that  any  mys- 
tical knowledge  came  to  him.  Only  one  thing  he  seemed 
strangely  to  know,  that  they  would  never  have  children.  The 
sleeping  world  and  the  sea,  and,  as  Rosamund  had  said,  "  what 
surrounds  and  permeates  us  and  all  this  "  seemed  to  permit 
him  mysteriously  to  get  at  that  one  bit  of  foreknowledge.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  say  to  him,  "  You  will  be  the  father  of  one 
child."  And  yet,  when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  he  realized  how 
probable,  how  indeed  almost  certain  it  was  that  the  silent  voice 
issued  from  within  himself.  Rosamund  and  he  had  talked 
about  a  child,  a  boy,  had  begun  almost  to  sketch  out  mental 
plans  for  that  boy's  upbringing;  they  had  never  talked  about 
children.  He  believed  that  he  had  penetrated  to  the  secret  of 
the  voice.  He  said  to  himself,  "  All  that  sort  of  thing  comes 
out  of  one's  self.  It  doesn't  reach  one  from  the  outside."  And 
yet,  when  he  looked  out  over  the  world,  which  seemed  wrapped 
in  ethereal  garments,  garments  woven  by  spirit  on  looms  no  hand 
of  woman  or  man  might  ever  touch,  he  was  vaguely  conscious 
that  all  within  himself  which  was  of  any  real  value  was  there 
too.  Surely  he  did  not  possess.  Rather  was  he  possessed  of. 

He  looked  at  Rosamund  at  last. 

"  Have  you  got  anything?  " 

But  she  did  not  answer  him.  There  was  a  great  stillness  in 
her  big  eyes.  All  the  vital  exuberance  of  body  and  spirit 
mingled  together  had  vanished  from  her  abruptly.  Nothing  of 
the  Amazon  who  had  captured  the  heart  of  Dirmikis  remained. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  79 

As  Dion  looked  at  her  now,  he  simply  could  not  see  the  beau- 
tiful schoolgirl  of  sixteen,  the  blonde  gipsy  who  had  bent  for- 
ward, cigarette  in  mouth,  to  his  match,  who  had  leaned  back 
and  blown  rings  to  the  moon  above  Drouva.  Had  she  ever  set 
the  butt  of  a  gun  against  her  shoulder?  Something  in  this 
woman's  eyes  made  him  suddenly  feel  as  if  he  ought  to  leave  her 
alone.  Yet  her  arm  still  lay  on  his,  and  she  was  his. 

Against  the  silver  of  the  moon  the  twisted  trunks  of  the  two 
small  olive  trees  showed  black  and  significant.  The  red  of  the 
dying  camp-fire  glowed  not  far  from  the  tent.  Dogs  were 
barking  in  the  hamlet  of  Drouva.  She  neither  saw  details  nor 
heard  ugly  sounds  in  the  night.  He  knew  that.  And  the  rest? 
It  seemed  to  him  that  something  of  her,  the  spirit  of  her,  per- 
haps, or  some  part  of  it  with  which  his  had  never  yet  had  any 
close  contact,  was  awake  and  at  work  in  the  night.  But  though 
he  held  her  arm  in  his  she  was  a  long  way  from  him.  And 
there  came  to  him  this  thought: 

"  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  leave  her  alone.  But  she  has  left  me 
alone." 

Almost  mechanically,  and  slowly,  he  straightened  his  arm, 
thus  letting  hers  slip.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  action. 
She  gazed  out  towards  Zante  over  a  world  that  now  looked 
very  mystical.  In  the  daylight  it  had  been  a  green  pastoral. 
Now  there  was  over  it,  and  even  surely  in  it,  a  dim  whiteness, 
a  something  pure  and  hushed,  like  the  sound,  remote  and  curi- 
ously final,  of  a  quiet  sleeper. 

That  night,  when  they  went  to  bed,  Rosamund  was  full  of 
the  delight  of  a  new  experience.  She  insisted  that  the  flap  of 
the  tent  should  not  be  kept  shut  down.  She  had  never  slept  in 
a  tent  before,  and  was  resolved  to  look  out  and  see  the  stars  from 
her  pillow. 

"  And  my  olive  tree,"  she  added. 

Obediently,  as  soon  as  she  was  in  her  camp-bed,  Dion  lifted 
the  flap.  A  candle  was  still  burning,  set  on  a  chair  between  the 
two  beds.  As  the  moonlight  came  in,  Rosamund  lifted  herselt 
on  one  arm,  leaned  over  and  blew  it  out. 

"  How  horrible  moonlight  makes  candlelight,"  she  said. 

Dion,  in  his  pyjamas,  was  outside  fastening  back  the  flap, 
his  bare  feet  on  the  short  dry  grass. 

"  I  can  see  the  Pleiades!  "  she  added  earnestly. 

"There!  "said  Dion. 

He  looked  up  at  the  sky. 

"  The  Pleiades,  the  Great  Bear,  Mars." 


80  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Oh!  "  she  drew  in  her  breath.     "  A  shooting  star!  " 

She  pressed  her  lips  together  and  half-shut  her  eyes.  By  her 
contracted  forehead  Dion  saw  that  she  was  wishing  almost 
fiercely.  He  believed  he  read  her  wish.  He  had  not  seen  the 
traveling  star,  and  did  not  try  to  wish  with  her,  lest  he  should 
cross  the  path  of  the  Fates  and  throw  his  shadow  on  her  desire. 

He  came  softly  into  the  tent  which  was  full  of  the  white- 
ness of  the  moon.  Sleeping  thus  with  Rosamund  in  the  bosom 
of  nature  was  very  wonderful  to  him.  It  was  like  a  sort  of 
re-marriage.  The  moon  and  the  stars  looking  in  made  his  rela- 
tion to  her  quite  new  and  more  beautiful. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  Olympia,"  he  whispered,  leaning  over 
her. 

He  kissed  her  very  gently,  not  with  any  passion.  He  had  the 
feeling  that  she  would  almost  resent  passion  just  then. 

He  got  into  his  bed  and  lay  with  his  arm  crooked,  his  cheek 
in  his  hand.  Part  of  the  Milky  Way  was  visible  to  him,  that 
dust  of  little  stars  powdering  the  deep  of  the  sky.  If  he,  too, 
should  see  a  falling  star  to-night,  dropping  down  towards  the 
hidden  sea,  vanishing  below  the  line  of  the  hill!  Would  he 
echo  her  wish? 

"  Are  you  sleepy,  Rosamund?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"  No.  I  don't  want  to  sleep.  It  would  make  me  miss  all 
the  stars." 

"  And  if  you're  tired  to-morrow?  " 

"  I  shan't  be.  I  shan't  be  tired  while  we  are  in  camp.  I 
should  like  never  to  go  to  bed  in  a  room  again.  I  should  like 
always  to  dwell  in  the  wilderness." 

He  longed  for  the  addition  of  just  two  words.  They  did  not 
come.  But  of  course  they  were  to  be  understood.  There  is  no 
need  to  state  things  known.  The  fact  that  she  had  let  him  bring 
her  to  the  wilderness  was  enough.  The  last  words  he  heard 
Rosamund  say  that  night  were  these,  almost  whispered  slowly  to 
herself  and  to  the  stars: 

"  The  wilderness  —  and  —  the  solitary  places." 

Very  early  in  the  morning  she  awoke  while  Dion  was  sleep- 
ing. She  slipped  softly  out  of  the  little  camp-bed,  wrapped  a 
cloak  around  her,  and  went  out  to  gaze  at  the  dawn. 

When  they  sat  at  breakfast  she  said: 

"  And  now  are  you  going  to  tell  me  the  secret?  " 

"  No.     I'm  going  to  let  you  find  it  out  for  yourself." 

"But  if  I  can't?" 

"  You  will." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  81 

They  set  off,  about  ten,  down  the  hill  on  foot.  The  morning 
was  very  still  and  already  very  hot.  As  they  descended  towards 
the  basin  in  which  lies  Olympia,  heat  ascended  to  meet  them 
and  to  give  them  a  welcome  —  a  soft  and  almost  enticing  heat 
like  a  breath  from  some  green  fastness  where  strange  marvels 
were  secluded. 

"  Elis  even  smells  remote,"  Rosamund  said. 

"  Are  you  sorry  to  leave  the  hill-top  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  was,  but  already  I'm  beginning  to  feel  drawn  on.  There's 
something  here  —  what  is  it?  " 

She  looked  at  him. 

"  Something  for  you." 

"  Specially  for  me?  " 

"  Specially  for  you." 

"  Hidden  in  the  folds  of  the  green.  Where  are  we  going 
first?" 

"  To  the  ruins." 

He  was  carrying  their  lunch  in  a  straw  pannier  slung  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  We'll  lunch  in  the  house  of  Nero,  and  rest  there." 

"  That  sounds  rather  dreadful,  Dion." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  it." 

"  I  can't  imagine  that  monster  in  Elis." 

"  He  was  a  very  artistic  monster,  you  remember." 

"  Like  some  of  the  decadents  in  London.  Why  is  it  that  those 
who  hate  moral  beauty  so  often  worship  all  the  other  beauties?  " 

"  D'you  think  in  their  hearts  they  actually  hate  moral 
beauty?  " 

"  Well,  despise  it,  laugh  at  it,  try  to  tarnish  it." 

"Paganism!  " 

"  Do  I  ever  strike  you  as  goody-goody  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens,  no!  " 

And  they  both  laughed  as  they  went  down  the  narrow  path 
to  the  soft  green  valley  that  awaited  them,  hushed  in  the  breath- 
^ess  morning,  withdrawn  among  the  hills,  holding  its  memories 
of  the  athletic  triumphs  of  past  ages.  Near  the  Museum  they 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  look  down  on  the  valley. 

"  Is  the  Hermes  in  there?  "  Rosamund  asked,  glancing  at  the 
closed  and  deserted  building. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  a  strange  and  delicious  home  for  him." 

"  You  shall  visit  him  presently.  There  are  jackals  in  this 
valley." 


82  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  didn't  hear  any  last  night." 

She  looked  again  at  the  closed  door  of  the  Museum. 

'•  When  do  they  open  it?  " 

"  Probably  the  guardian's  in  there.     That's  where  he  lives." 

He  pointed  to  a  small  dwelling  close  to  the  Museum.  Just 
then  a  tiny  murmur  of  some  far-away  wind  stirred  the  umbrella 
pines  which  stood  sentinel  over  the  valley. 

"  Oh,  Dion,  what  an  exquisite  sound !  "  she  said. 

She  held  up  one  hand  like  a  listening  child.  There  was  awe 
in  her  eyes. 

"  This  is  a  shrine,"  she  said,  when  the  murmur  failed. 
"  Dion,  I  know  you  planned  to  go  first  to  the  ruins." 

"Yes.     They're  just  below  us.     Look  —  by  the  river!  " 

"  Let  me  see  the  Hermes  first,  just  for  a  moment." 

Their  eyes  met.  He  thought  she  was  reading  his  mind, 
though  he  tried  to  keep  it  closed  against  her  just  then. 

"  Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  feel  I  must  see  it,"  she  answered,  with  a  sort  of  sweet 
obstinacy. 

He  hesitated. 

"  Well,  then  —  I'll  see  if  I  can  find  the  guardian." 

In  a  moment  he  came  back  with  a  smiling  Greek  who  was 
holding  a  key.  As  the  man  went  to  open  the  door,  Dion  said: 

"  Rose,  will  you  follow  my  directions?  " 

"When?" 

"  Now,  when  you  go  into  the  Museum." 

"  But  aren't  you  coming  too?  " 

"  Not  now.  I  will  when  we've  seen  the  ruins.  When  you 
go  into  the  Museum  go  straight  through  the  vestibule  where  the 
Roman  Emperors  are.  Don't  turn  to  the  right.  In  front  of 
you  you'll  see  a  hall  with  a  wooden  roof  and  red  walls.  The 
'  Victory  '  is  there.  But  don't  stay  there.  Go  into  the  small 
room  beyond,  the  last  room,  and  you  mustn't  let  the  guardian  go 
with  you." 

From  behind  came  the  sound  of  the  big  door  being  opened. 

"  Then  that  is  the  secret,  and  I  knew  about  it  all  the  time!  " 

"  Knew  about  it  —  yes." 

She  looked  down  on  the  green  cup  surrounded  by  hills,  with 
its  little  river  where  now  two  half-naked  men  were  dragging 
with  a  hand-net  for  fish.  Again  the  tiny  breath  from  the  far- 
away wind  stirred  in  the  pine  trees,  evoking  soft  sounds  of 
Eternity.  She  turned  away  and  went  into  the  Museum. 

Left  alone,  Dion  lifted  the  lunch-pannier  from  his  shoulder 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  83 

and  laid  it  down  on  the  ground.  Then  he  sat  down  under  one 
of  the  pine  trees.  A  wild  olive  grew  very  near  it.  He  thought 
of  the  crown  of  wild  olive  which  the  victors  received  in  days 
when  the  valley  resounded  with  voices  and  the  trampling  of 
the  feet  of  horses.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  laid  it  beside  him 
on  the  ground  by  the  lunch-pannier.  One  of  the  men  in  the 
river  cried  out  to  his  companion.  Sheep-bells  sounded  softly 
down  the  valley.  Some  peasants  went  by  with  a  small  train 
of  donkeys  on  a  path  which  wound  away  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
of  Kronos. 

Dion  was  being  unselfish.  In  staying  where  he  was,  be- 
yond the  outer  door  of  the  house  of  the  Hermes,  he  was  taking 
the  first  firm  step  on  a  path  which  might  lead  him  on  very 
far.  He  had  slept  in  the  dawn  when  Rosamund  slipped  out  of 
the  tent,  but  till  the  stars  waned  he  had  been  awake,  and  in 
the  white  light  of  the  moon  he  had  seen  the  beginning  of  the 
path.  Men  were  said  to  be  selfish.  People,  especially  women, 
often  talked  as  if  selfishness  were  bred  in  the  very  fiber  of  men, 
as  if  it  were  ineradicable,  and  must  be  accepted  by  women. 
He  meant  to  prove  to  one  woman  that  even  a  man  could  be 
unselfish,  moved  by  something  greater  than  himself.  Up  there 
on  Drouva  he  had  definitely  dedicated  himself  to  Rosamund. 
His  acute  pain  when,  coming  back  to  the  place  where  he  had 
left  her  by  the  tent  before  sunset,  he  had  not  found  her,  his 
sense  almost  of  a  smoldering  anger,  had  startled  him.  In  the 
night  he  had  thought  things  over,  and  then  he  had  come  to  the 
beginning  of  the  path.  A  really  great  love,  if  it  is  to  be  worthy 
to  carry  the  torch,  must  tread  in  the  way  of  unselfishness.  He 
would  conform  to  the  needs,  doubtless  imperious,  of  Rosamund's 
nature,  even  when  they  conflicted  with  his. 

So  now  he  sat  outside  under  the  pine  tree,  and  she  was  within 
alone.  A  first  step  was  taken  on  the  path. 

Would  she  presently  come  through  the  hall  of  the  Victory  to 
call  him  in? 

He  heard  the  guardian  cough  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Empe- 
rors ;  the  cough  was  that  of  a  man  securely  alone  with  his  bodily 
manifestations.  The  train  of  peasants  had  vanished.  Still  the 
sheep-bells  sounded,  but  the  chime  seemed  to  come  to  him  now 
from  a  greater  distance. 

The  morning  was  wearing  on.  When  would  she  come  back 
to  him  from  the  secret  of  Olympia? 

He  heard  again  above  his  head  the  eternities  whispering  in 
the  pine  branches.  The  calmness  and  heat  of  the  valley  min- 


84  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

gled  together,  and  rose  to  him,  and  wanted  to  take  him  to 
themselves.  But  he  was  detached  from  them,  terribly  detached 
by  his  virtue  —  his  virtue,  which  involved  him  in  a  struggle, 
pushed  them  off. 

Surely  an  hour  had  passed,  perhaps  even  more.  He  began 
to  tingle  with  impatience.  The  sound  of  the  sheep-bells  had 
died  away  beyond  the  colonnade  of  the  echoes.  A  living  silence 
was  now  about  him. 

At  last  he  put  on  his  hat  and  got  up.  The  Hermes  was  prov- 
ing his  power  too  mercilessly,  was  stealing  the  hours  like  a  thief 
at  work  in  the  dark.  The  knowledge  that  Rosamund  was  his 
own  for  life  did  not  help  Dion  at  all  at  this  moment.  He  had 
planned  out  this  day  as  if  they  were  never  to  have  another. 
Their  time  in  Greece  was  nearly  over,  and  they  could  not  linger 
for  very  long  anywhere.  Anyhow,  just  this  day,  once  gone, 
could  never  be  recaptured. 

He  looked  towards  the  doorway  of  the  Museum,  hesitating. 
He  was  devoured  by  impatience.  Nevertheless  he  did  not  wish 
to  step  out  of  that  path,  the  beginning  of  which  he  had  seen  in 
the  night.  Determined  not  to  seek  Rosamund,  yet  driven  by 
restlessness,  he  did  one  of  those  meaningless  things  which, 
bringing  hurt  to  nature,  are  expected  by  man  to  bring  him  at 
least  a  momentary  solace.  His  eyes  happened  to  rest  on  the 
olive  tree  which  stood  not  far  from  the  Museum.  One  branch 
of  it  was  stretched  out  beyond  the  others.  He  walked  up  to  the 
tree,  pulled  at  the  branch,  and  finally  snapped  it  off,  stripped  it 
of  its  leaves  and  threw  it  on  the  ground. 

As  he  finished  this  stupid  and  useless  act,  Rosamund  came 
out  of  the  Museum,  looking  almost  angry. 

"Oh,  Dion,  was  it  you?"  she  asked.  "What  could  make 
you  do  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  But  —  what  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  down  at  the  massacred  branch  at  his  feet. 

"  A  branch  of  wild  olive!     If  you  only  knew  how  it  hurt  me." 

"  Oh  —  that !     But  how  could  you  know  ?  " 

She  still  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  shining  of  anger  in 
her  eyes. 

"  I  saw  from  the  room  of  the  Hermes.  The  doorway  of  the 
Museum  is  the  frame  for  such  a  picture  of  Elis!  It's  almost, 
in  its  way,  as  dream-like  and  lovely  as  the  distant  country  one 
sees  through  the  temple  door  in  Raphael's  '  Marriage  of  the 
Virgin '  in  Milan.  And  hanging  partly  across  it  was  that 
branch  of  wild  olive.  I  was  looking  at  it  and  loving  it  in  the 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  85 

room  of  the  Hermes  when  a  man's  arm,  your  arm,  was  thrust 
into  the  picture,  and  the  poor  branch  was  torn  away." 

She  had  spoken  quite  excitedly,  still  evidently  under  the  im- 
pulse of  something  like  anger.  Now  she  suddenly  pulled  her- 
self up  with  a  little  forced  laugh. 

"  Of  course  you  didn't  know;  you  couldn't.  I  suppose  I 
was  dreaming,  and  it  —  it  looked  like  a  sort  of  murder.  But 
still  I  don't  see  why  you  should  tear  the  branch  off,  and  all  the 
leaves  too." 

"  I'm  sorry,  I'm  very  sorry,  Rosamund.  It  was  idiotic.  Of 
course  I  hadn't  an  idea  what  you  were  doing,  I  mean,  that 
you  were  looking  at  it.  One  does  senseless  little  things  some- 
times." 

"  It  looked  so  angry." 

"What  did?" 

"  Your  hand,  your  arm.     You  can  have  no  idea  how " 

She  broke  off  again. 

"  Let  me  come  in  with  you.     Let's  go  to  the  Hermes." 

"  Oh  no,  not  now." 

She  spoke  with  almost  brusk  decision. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I'll  just  pay  the  man  something,  and  we'll 
be  off  to  the  ruins." 

"  Yes." 

Dion  went  to  pay  the  guardian,  whom  he  found  standing  up 
among  the  Roman  Emperors  in  a  dignified  and  receptive  atti- 
tude. When  he  came  back  he  picked  up  the  lunch-basket,  slung 
it  over  his  shoulder,  and  they  walked  down  the  small  hill  and 
towards  the  ruins  in  silence.  He  felt  involved  in  a  tragedy, 
pained  and  discomforted.  Yet  it  was  all  rather  absurd,  too. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  how  to  take  it,  and  he  looked 
straight  ahead,  seeking  instinctively  for  some  diversion.  When 
they  were  on  the  river  bank  he  found  it  in  the  fishermen  who 
were  wading  in  the  shallows  with  their  nets. 

"  I  wonder  what  they  catch  here,"  he  said.  "  There's  not 
much  water." 

Rosamund  took  up  the  remark  with  her  usual  readiness  and 
sympathetic  cordiality,  and  soon  they  were  chattering  again 
much  as  usual. 

The  great  heat  of  the  hour  after  noontide  found  them  lunch- 
ing among  the  ruins  of  Nero's  house.  By  this  time  the  spell 
of  the  place  had  fast  hold  of  them  both.  Nature  had  long 
since  taken  the  ruins  to  her  gentle  breast;  she  took  Rosamund 
and  Dion  with  them.  In  her  green  lap  she  sheltered  them ;  with 


86  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

her  green  hills  and  her  groves  of  pine  trees  she  wrapped  them 
round;  with  her  tall  grasses,  her  bushes,  her  wild  flowers  and 
her  leaves  she  caught  at  and  caressed  them.  A  jackal  whined 
in  its  lair  near  the  huge  limestone  blocks  of  the  temple  of  Zeus. 
Green  lizards  basked  on  pavements  which  still  showed  the  lit- 
tle ruts  constructed  to  save  the  feet  of  contending  athletes  from 
slipping.  All  along  the  green  valley  the  birds  flew  and  sang; 
blackberry  bushes  climbed  over  the  broken  walls  of  the  man- 
sion of  Nero,  and  red  and  white  daisies  and  silvery  grasses  grew 
in  every  cranny  where  the  kindly  earth  found  a  foothold. 

"  Look  at  those  butterflies,  Dion!  "  Rosamund  said. 

Two  snow-white  butterflies,  wandering  among  the  ruins,  had 
found  their  way  to  the  house  of  Nero,  and  seemed  inclined  to 
make  it  their  home.  Keeping  close  together,  as  if  guided  by 
some  sweet  and  whimsical  purpose,  they  flew  from  stone  to  stone, 
from  daisy  to  daisy,  often  alighting,  as  if  bent  on  a  thorough 
investigation  of  this  ancient  precinct,  then  fluttering  forward 
again,  with  quivering  wings,  not  quite  satisfied,  in  an  airy 
search  for  the  thing  or  the  place  desired.  Several  times  they 
seemed  about  to  abandon  the  ruins  of  Nero's  house,  but,  though 
they  fluttered  away,  they  always  returned.  And  at  last  they 
alighted  side  by  side  on  a  piece  of  uneven  wall,  and  rested,  as 
if  asleep  in  the  sun,  with  folded  wings. 

"  That's  the  finishing  touch,"  said  Rosamund.  "  White  but- 
terflies asleep  in  the  house  of  Nero." 

She  looked  round  over  the  ruins,  poetic  and  beautiful  in  their 
prostration,  as  if  they  had  fallen  to  kiss  the  vale  which,  in  re- 
turn, had  folded  them  in  an  eternal  embrace. 

"Don't  take  me  to  Delphi  this  time,  Dion;  don't  take  me 
anywhere  else,"  she  said. 

"  I  was  thinking  only  to-day  that  our  time's  very  short  now. 
We  lingered  so  long  in  Athens." 

"  We'll  say  our  good-by  to  Greece  from  the  Acropolis. 
That's  —  of  course!  The  grandeur  and  wonder  are  there.  But 
the  dream  of  Greece  —  that's  here.  This  is  a  shrine." 

"For  Pan?" 

"  Oh  no,  not  for  Pan,  though  I  dare  say  he  often  comes 
here." 

From  the  Kronos  Hill,  covered  with  little  pines,  came  the 
mystical  voice  of  the  breeze,  speaking  to  them  in  long  and  re- 
mote murmurs. 

"  That's  the  most  exquisite  sound  in  the  world,"  Rosamund 
continued.  "  But  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  Pan.  You  remem- 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  87 

her  that  day  we  went  into  the  Russian  church  in  Athens,  Dion?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  There  was  the  same  sort  of  sound  in  those  Russian  voices 
when  they  were  singing  very  softly.  It  could  never  come  from 
a  Pagan  world." 

"  You  find  belief  behind  it?  " 

"No  —  knowledge." 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  define  exactly  what  she  meant.  It  was 
not  an  hour  for  definition,  but  for  dreaming,  and  he  was  happy 
again;  the  cloud  of  the  morning  had  passed  away;  he  had  his 
love  with  untroubled  eyes  among  the  ruins.  Thinking  of  that, 
realizing  that  with  a  sudden  intensity,  he  took  her  warm  hand 
from  the  warm  stone  on  which  it  was  resting,  and  held  it  closely 
in  his. 

"  Oh,  Rosamund,  shall  I  ever  have  another  hour  as  happy  as 
this?  "  he  said. 

A  little  way  off,  in  that  long  meadow  in  the  breast  of  v.-'iich 
the  Stadium  lay  hidden,  the  sheep-bells  sounded  almost  pathet- 
ically; a  flock  was  there  happily  at  pasture. 

"  It's  as  if  all  the  green  doors  were  closing  upon  us  to  keep 
us  in  Elis  forever,  isn't  it?  "  she  said.  "  But " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  smiling  reproach: 

"  You  wouldn't  be  allowed  to  stay." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  committed  a  crime  this  morning.  Nature's  taken  pos- 
session of  Olympia,  and  you  struck  at  her." 

"  D'you  know  why  I  did  that?  " 

"  No." 

But  she  did  not  again  ask  him  why,  and  he  never  told  her. 
When  the  heat  had  lessened  a  little,  they  wandered  once  more 
through  that  garden  of  ruins,  where  scarcely  a  column  is  stand- 
ing, where  convulsions  of  nature  have  helped  the  hands  of  man 
to  overthrow  man's  work,  and  where  nature  has  healed  every 
wound,  and  made  every  scar  tender  and  beautiful.  And  pres- 
ently Rosamund  said: 

"  I  want  to  know  exactly  where  the  Hermes  was  found." 

"  Come,  and  I'll  show  you." 

He  led  her  on  among  the  wild  flowers  and  the  grasses,  till 
they  came  to  the  clearly  marked  base  of  the  Heraxm,  the  most 
ancient  known  temple  of  Greece.  Two  of  its  columns  were 
standing,  tremendously  massive  Doric  columns  of  a  warm 
golden-brown  color. 

"  The  Hermes  was  found  in  this  temple.     It  stood  between 


88  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

two  of  the  columns,  but  I  believe  it  was  lying  down  when  it 
was  found." 

"  It's  difficult  to  imagine  him  between  such  columns  as  these." 

"  Yet  you  love  Doric." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  know " 

She  looked  at  the  columns,  even  put  her  hands  on  them  as 
if  trying  to  clasp  them. 

"  It  must  have  been  right.  The  Greeks  knew.  Strength  and 
grace,  power  and  delicacy,  that's  the  bodily  ideal.  So  the 
Hermes  stood  actually  here." 

She  looked  all  round,  she  listened  to  the  distant  sheep-bells, 
she  drew  into  her  nostrils  the  green  scents  of  the  valley. 

"  And  left  his  influence  here  for  ever,"  she  added.  "  His 
quiet  influence." 

"  Let  me  come  to  see  him  with  you  on  the  way  home." 

And  this  time  she  said,  "  Yes." 

At  a  little  after  four  they  left  the  sweet  valley,  and,  passing 
over  the  river,  ascended  the  hill  to  the  Museum.  The  door  was 
open,  and  the  guardian  was  sitting  profoundly  asleep  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  Emperors. 

"  You  see,  that's  the  picture-frame,"  Rosamund  whispered, 
when  they  were  inside,  pointing  to  the  doorway.  "  The  branch 
came  just  there  in  my  picture." 

She  had  lifted  her  hand.  He  took  her  by  the  wrist  and  gently 
pulled  her  hand  down. 

"  You  mustn't  show  me  that." 

"  Don't  let  us  wake  him." 

A  fly  buzzed  outside  on  the  sunny  threshold  of  the  door,  mak- 
ing a  sleepy  sound  like  the  winding  of  a  rustic  horn  in  the 
golden  stillness,  as  they  went  forward  on  tiptoe  between  the  dull 
red  walls  of  the  hall  of  the  Victory,  and  came  into  the  room  be- 
yond, where  the  Hermes  stood  alone  but  for  the  little  Dionysos 
on  his  arm. 

There  a  greater  silence  seemed  to  reign  —  the  silence  of  the 
harmony  which  lies  beyond  music,  as  a  blue  background  of  the 
atmosphere  lies  beyond  the  verges  of  the  vastest  stretch  of  land 
that  man's  eyes  have  power  to  see;  he  sees  the  blue,  but  almost 
as  if  with  his  soul,  and  in  like  manner  hears  the  harmony. 
Both  Rosamund  and  Dion  felt  the  difference  in  the  silence  di- 
rectly they  entered  that  sacred  room. 

There  was  no  room  beyond  it.     Not  very  large,  it  was  lighted 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  89 

by  three  windows  set  in  a  row  under  a  handsome  roof  of  wood. 
The  walls  were  dull  red  like  the  walls  in  the  hall  of  the  Victory. 
On  the  mosaic  pavement  were  placed  two  chairs.  Rosamund 
went  straight  up  to  one  of  them,  and  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
statue,  which  was  raised  on  a  high  pedestal,  and  set  facing  the 
right-hand  wall  of  the  chamber.  Dion  remained  standing  a 
little  way  behind  her. 

He  remembered  quite  well  his  first  visit  to  Olympia,  his  first 
sight  of  the  Hermes.  He  had  realized  then  very  clearly  the 
tragedy  of  large  Museums  in  which  statues  stand  together  in 
throngs,  enclosed  within  roaring  cities.  From  its  situation,  hid- 
den in  the  green  breast  of  this  valley  in  Elis,  the  Hermes  seemed 
to  receive  a  sort  of  consecration,  a  blessing  from  its  shrine;  and 
the  valley  received  surely  from  the  Hermes  a  gracious  benedic- 
tion, making  it  unlike  any  other  valley,  however  beautiful,  in 
any  land  of  the  earth.  Nowhere  else  could  the  Hermes  have 
been  so  serenely  tender,  so  exquisitely  benign  in  its  contempla- 
tion; and  no  other  valley  could  have  kept  it  safe  with  such 
gentle  watchfulness,  such  tranquilly  unwearied  patience. 
Surely  each  loved  the  other,  and  so  each  gained  something  from 
the  other. 

Through  all  the  months  since  his  visit,  Dion  had  remem- 
bered the  unique  quality  of  the  peace  of  Olympia,  like  no  other 
peace,  and  the  strange  and  exquisite  hush  which  greeted  the 
pilgrim  at  the  threshold  of  the  chamber  in  which  the  Hermes 
stood.  He  had  remembered,  but  now  he  felt.  Again  the  si- 
lence seemed  to  come  out  of  the  marble  to  greet  him,  a  remem- 
bered pilgrim  who  had  returned  to  his  worship  bringing  another 
pilgrim.  He  entered  once  more  into  the  peace  of  the  Hermes, 
and  now  Rosamund  shared  that  peace.  As  he  looked  at  her  for 
a  moment,  he  knew  he  had  made  a  complete  atonement;  he  had 
sent  the  shadow  away. 

How  could  any  shadow  stand  in  the  presence  of  the  Hermes? 
The  divine  calm  within  this  chamber  had  a  power  which  was 
akin  to  the  power  of  nature  in  the  twilight  of  a  windless  even- 
ing, or  of  a  beautiful  soul  at  ease  in  its  own  simplicity.  It 
purified.  Dion  could  not  imagine  any  man  being  able  to  look 
at  the  Hermes  and  feel  the  attraction  of  sin.  Rosamund  was 
right,  he  thought.  Surely  men  have  to  go  and  fetch  their  sins. 
Their  goodness  is  given  to  them.  The  mother  holds  it,  and  is 
aware  of  it,  when  her  baby  is  put  into  her  arms  for  the  first 
time. 


go  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

For  a  long  while  these  two  watched  Hermes  and  the  child 
in  the  silence  of  Elis,  bound  together  by  an  almost  perfect 
sympathy.  And  they  understood  as  never  before  the  beauty 
of  calm  —  calm  of  the  nerves,  calm  of  the  body,  calm  of  the 
mind,  the  heart  and  the  soul;  peace  physical,  intellectual  and 
moral.  In  looking  at  the  Hermes  they  saw,  or  seemed  to  them- 
selves to  see,  the  goal,  what  struggling  humanity  is  meant  for 
—  the  perfect  poise,  all  faculties  under  effortless  control,  and 
so  peace. 

"  We  must  be  meant  for  that,  we  are  meant  for  that,"  Dion 
said  to  himself.  "  Shall  we  reach  that  goal,  and  take  a  child 
with  us?" 

Then  he  looked  down  at  Rosamund,  saw  her  pale  yellow 
hair,  the  back  of  her  neck,  in  which,  somehow,  purity  was 
manifested,  and  thought: 

"  I  might  perhaps  get  there  through  her,  but  only  through 
her." 

She  turned  round,  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Isn't  he  divine?     And  the  child's  attitude!  " 

Dion  moved  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  If  this  is  Paganism,"  she  continued,  "  it's  the  same  thing 
as  Christianity.  It's  what  God  means.  Men  try  to  separate 
things  that  are  all  one.  I  feel  that  when  I  look  at  Hermes. 
Oh,  how  beautiful  he  is!  And  his  beauty  is  as  much  moral 
as  physical.  You  know  the  Antinous  mouth?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Look  at  his  mouth.  Could  any  one,  comparing  the  two, 
honestly  say  that  purity  doesn't  shine  like  a  light  in  darkness? 
Aren't  those  lips  stamped  with  the  Divine  seal  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  are." 

"  Dion,  I'm  so  thankful  I  have  a  husband  who's  kept  the 
power  to  see  that  even  physical  beauty  must  have  moral  beauty 
behind  it  to  be  perfect.  Many  men  can't  see  that,  I  think." 

"Is  it  their  fault?" 

"  Yes." 

After  another  long  silence  she  said: 

"  Spirit  really  is  everything.  Hermes  tells  me  that  almost 
as  plainly  as  the  New  Testament.  Lots  of  people  we  know 
in  London  would  laugh  at  me  for  saying  so,  the  people  who 
talk  of  '  being  Greek  '  and  who  never  can  be  Greek.  And  he 
stood  between  Doric  columns.  I'm  trying  to  learn  something 
here." 

"  What?  " 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  91 

"  How  to  bring  him  up  if  he  ever  comes." 
Dion  felt  for  her  hand. 

They  stayed  on  for  a  week  at  Drouva.  Each  evening  Rosa- 
mund shot  with  the  boy  of  the  wilderness,  and  they  ate  any 
birds  that  fell,  at  their  evening  meal.  The  nights  were  given 
to  the  stars  till  sleep  came.  And  all  the  days  were  dedicated 
to  Hermes,  the  child,  and  the  sweet  green  valley  which  served 
as  a  casket  for  the  perfect  jewel  which  the  earth  had  given  up 
after  centuries  of  possession.  Since  Rosamund  had  told  the 
dear  secret  of  her  heart,  what  she  was  trying  to  learn,  Dion  was 
able  to  see  her  go  in  alone  to  the  inner  chamber  without  any 
secret  jealousy  or  any  impatience.  The  given  confidence  had 
done  its  blessed  work  swiftly  and  surely;  the  spring  behind  the 
action,  revealed  so  simply,  was  respected,  was  almost  loved  by 
Dion.  Often  he  sat  among  the  ruins  alone,  smoking  his  pipe; 
or  he  wandered  away  after  the  call  of  the  sheep-bells,  passing 
between  the  ruined  walls  overgrown  with  brambles  and  grasses 
and  mosses,  shaded  here  and  there  by  a  solitary  tree,  and  under 
the  low  arch  of  the  Athletes'  entrance  into  the  great  green  space 
where  the  contests  had  been  held.  Here  he  found  the  wearers 
of  music  feeding  peacefully,  attended  by  a  dreaming  boy. 
With  the  Two  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  there  were  happy  ani- 
mals. The  sheep-bells  ringing  tranquilly  in  his  ears  made 
Eden  more  real  to  him,  and  also  more  like  something  in  one  of 
the  happy  dreams  of  a  man. 

A  world  that  had  risen  to  great  heights  of  emotion  in  this 
valley  was  dead,  but  that  did  not  sadden  him.  He  found  it 
impossible  to  be  sad  in  Olympia,  because  his  own  life  was  so 
happy. 

A  delicious  egoism,  the  birthright  of  his  youth,  had  him  safe 
in  its  grasp.  But  sometimes,  when  Rosamund  was  alone  in  the 
room  of  the  Hermes,  learning  her  lesson,  and  he  was  among 
the  ruins,  or  walking  above  the  buried  Stadium  where  the  flocks 
were  at  pasture,  he  recalled  the  great  contests  of  the  Athletes 
of  ancient  Greece;  the  foot-races  which  were  the  original  com- 
petitions at  the  games,  the  races  in  armor,  the  long  jumps,  the 
wrestling  matches,  the  discus  and  dart-throwing,  the  boxing 
and  the  brutal  pankration.  And  he  remembered  that  at  the 
Olympic  Games  there  were  races  for  boys,  for  quite  young  boys. 
A  boy  had  won  at  Olympia  who  was  only  twelve  years  old. 
When  Dion  recalled  that  fact  one  golden  afternoon,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  perhaps  his  lesson  was  to  be  learnt  among  the 


92  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

feeding  sheep  in  the  valley,  rather  even  than  on  the  hill  where 
the  Hermes  dwelt.  The  father  surely  shapes  one  part  of  the 
sacred  clay  of  youth,  while  on  the  other  part,  with  a  greater 
softness,  a  perhaps  subtler  care,  the  mother  works. 

He  would  try  to  make  his  boy  sturdy  and  strong  and 
courageous,  swift  to  the  race  of  life;  he  would  train  his  boy 
to  be  a  victor,  to  be  a  boy  champion  among  other  boys.  Her 
son  must  not  fail  to  win  the  crown  of  wild  olive.  And  when 

he  was  a  man !     But  at  that  point  in  his  dreams  of  the 

future  Dion  always  pulled  up.  He  could  not  see  Rosamund 
as  the  mother  of  a  man,  could  not  see  Rosamund  old.  She 
would,  of  course,  be  beautiful  in  old  age,  with  a  perhaps  more 
spiritual  beauty  than  she  had  even  now.  He  shut  his  eyes, 
tried  to  imagine  her,  to  see  her  before  him  with  snow-white 
hair,  a  face  perhaps  etherealized  by  knowledge  of  life  and 
suffering;  once  he  even  called  up  the  most  perfect  picture  of 
old  age  he  knew  of  —  the  portrait  of  Whistler's  mother,  calm, 
dignified,  gentle,  at  peace,  with  folded  hands;  but  his  efforts 
were  in  vain;  he  simply  could  not  see  his  Rosamund  old.  And 
so,  because  of  that,  he  could  only  see  their  child  as  a  very 
young  boy,  wearing  a  boy's  crown  of  wild  olive,  such  as  had 
once  been  won  by  the  boy  of  twelve  in  the  games  at  Olympia. 

The  last  day  of  their  visit  to  the  green  wilds  and  the  hill- 
tops dawned,  still,  cloudless  and  very  hot.  There  was  a  light 
haze  over  Zante,  and  the  great  plain  held  a  look  of  sleep  —  not 
the  sleep  of  night  but  of  the  siesta,  when  the  dreams  come  out 
of  the  sun,  and  descend  through  the  deep-blue  corridors  to 
visit  those  who  are  weary  in  the  gold.  Rosamund,  bareheaded, 
stood  on  the  hill  of  Drouva  and  gazed  towards  the  sea;  her  arm 
was  round  her  olive  tree;  she  looked  marvelously  well,  lithe 
and  strong,  but  her  face  was  grave,  held  even  a  hint  of  sad- 
ness. 

"  Our  last  day  here!  "  she  said  to  Dion.  "  One  more  night 
with  the  stars,  only  one!  Dion,  when  you  brought  me  here, 
you  did  a  dangerous  thing." 

"  Gave  you  opportunities  for  regret?     D'you  mean  that?  " 

She  nodded,  still  gazing  towards  Zante. 

"  Such  opportunities!  " 

"  It  couldn't  be  helped.     I  had  to  bring  you." 

"  Of  course.  I  know.  If  you  had  let  me  leave  Greece  with- 
out coming  here,  and  I  had  ever  come  to  understand  what  I 
had  missed,  I  don't  believe  I  could  have  forgiven  even  you." 

"'  I  always  meant  to  bring  you  here." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  93 

"  But  you  had  a  sudden  impulse,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  exactly  did  it  come  ?  " 

He  hesitated.  Suddenly  he  felt  reserved;  but  he  broke 
through  his  reserve  and  answered: 

"  I  saw  I  had  made  you  feel  sad." 

"  Did  you?     Why  was  it?  " 

"  Don't  you  remember?  " 

She  was  catching  the  dream  of  the  plain,  perhaps,  for  she 
replied,  with  an  almost  preoccupied  air: 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  I  wanted  to  make  you  happy  again,  very  happy,  to  give 
you  a  treat  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  idea  of  this  " —  he 
flung  out  a  brown  hand  — "  came  to  me  suddenly.  That's  how 
it  was.  You  —  you  don't  know  how  I  wish  to  keep  every 
breath  of  sorrow  out  of  your  life." 

"  I  know  you  do;  I  feel  it.     But  you've  put  a  sorrow  in." 

She  spoke  with  a  half-whimsical  smile. 

"Have  I?" 

"  The  sorrow  of  leaving  all  this,  of  leaving  the  Hermes.  I 
didn't  know  it  was  possible  to  grow  to  care  for  a  lifeless  thing 
as  I  care  for  him.  Sometimes  I  believe  the  marble  has  actually 
retained  something  of  the  beautiful  mind  and  soul  of  Praxiteles. 
I  know  nothing  of  Praxiteles  as  a  man.  I  mean  as  apart  from 
a  sculptor.  But  he  must  have  been  full  of  almost  divine 
feelings  and  conceptions,  or  he  could  never  have  made  my 
Hermes.  No  man  can  make  the  divine  without  having  divin- 
ity in  him.  I've  learnt  more  here  in  these  few  days  than  I 
have  learnt  in  all  my  years." 

"  From  the  statue  of  a  Pagan.     Isn't  that  strange  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  For  I  was  able  to  see  the  Chris- 
tianity in  it.  I  know  what  Praxiteles  was  only  able  to  feel 
mysteriously.  Sometimes  in  London  I've  heard  people  —  you 
know  the  sort  of  people  I  mean  —  regretting  they  didn't  live 
in  the  old  Greek  world." 

"  I've  regretted  that." 

"  Have  you  ?  But  not  in  their  way.  When  I  look  at  the 
Hermes  I  feel  very  thankful  I  have  lived  since." 

"  Tell  me  just  why." 

"  Because  I  live  in  a  world  which  has  received  definitely 
and  finally  the  message  the  Hermes  knew  before  it  was  sent 
down." 

She  took  away  her  arm  from  the  olive  tree  and  sighed. 


94  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Oh,  Dion,  I  shall  hate  going  away,  leaving  the  tent  and 
Drouva  and  him.  But  I  believe  whenever  I  think  of  Olympia 
I  shall  feel  the  peace  that,  thank  God,  doesn't  pass  all  under- 
standing." 

They  went  down  to  the  valley  that  day  to  pay  their  final 
visit  to  the  Hermes.  Twilight  had  not  yet  come,  but  was  not 
very  far  off  when,  for  the  last  time,  they  crossed  the  threshold 
of  his  chamber.  More  silent  than  ever,  more  benignly  silent, 
did  the  hush  about  him  seem  to  Dion;  more  profound  were  his 
peace  and  serenity.  He  and  the  child  had  surely  withdrawn 
a  little  farther  from  all  that  was  not  intended,  but  that,  for 
some  inscrutable  reason,  had  come  to  be.  His  winged  sandals 
had  carried  him  still  farther  away.  As  Dion  looked  at  him  he 
seemed  to  be  afar. 

"Rosamund!" 

"Yes?" 

"  This  evening  I  have  a  feeling  about  the  Hermes  I've  never 
had  before." 

"  What  is  it?  " 

"  That  he's  taking  the  child  away,  quite  away." 

"  But  he's  always  been  here,  and  not  here.  That's  what  I 
love  so  much." 

"  I  don't  mean  quite  that.  It's  as  if  he  were  taking  the 
child  farther  and  farther  away,  partly  because  of  us." 

"  I  don't  like  that.     I  don't  feel  that  at  all." 

"  We  belong  to  this  world,  you  see,  and  are  subject  to  all 
its  conditions.  We  are  in  it  and  of  it." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  He  belongs  to  such  a  different  world." 

"  Yes,  the  released  world,  where  no  ugly  passions  can  ever 
get  in." 

"  The  way  he  looks  at  Dionysos  tells  one  that.  He  hasn't 
any  fear  for  the  boy's  future  when  he  grows  up  and  comes  to 
know  things.  It  just  strikes  me  that  no  human  being  who 
thinks  could  ever  look  at  a  human  child  like  that.  There  would 
always  be  the  fear  behind  — '  What  is  life  going  to  do  to  the 
child?'" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  her  face  was  very  grave. 

"  D'you  think  we  should  feel  that?  " 

"  Surely." 

"  Unless  we  got  the  serene  courage  of  the  Hermes." 

"  But  he  lived  among  gods,  and  we  live  among  men." 

"  Not  always." 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  95 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Perhaps  some  day  you  will,"  she  answered. 

Into  her  eyes  there  had  come  a  strange  look  of  withdrawal. 

At  that  moment  the  atmosphere  in  the  room  of  the  Hermes 
seemed  to  Dion  more  full  of  peace  even  than  before,  but  the 
peace  was  like  something  almost  tangible.  It  troubled  him 
a  little  because  he  felt  that  the  Hermes,  the  child  and  Rosa- 
mund were  of  it,  while  he  was  not.  They  were  surrounded 
by  the  atmosphere  necessary  to  them,  and  to  which  they  were 
mysteriously  accustomed,  while  he  was  for  the  first  time  in 
such  an  atmosphere.  He  felt  separated  from  Rosamund  by  a 
gulf,  perhaps  very  narrow,  but  probably  very  deep. 

Over  Elis  the  twilight  was  falling,  a  green  twilight  sylvan 
and  very  ethereal,  tremulous  in  its  delicate  beauty.  It  stole 
through  the  green  doors,  and  down  through  the  murmuring 
pine  trees;  it  crossed  the  shallow  river,  and  made  its  way  to 
the  garden  of  ruins  where  once  the  Hermes  had  stood  between 
Doric  columns  in  the  Heraeon.  Through  the  colonnade  of  the 
echoes  it  passed,  and  under  the  arch  of  the  Athletes.  Over  the 
crude  and  almost  terrible  strength  of  the  ruins  of  the  temple 
of  Zeus  it  let  its  green  garments  trail  down,  as  it  felt  its  way 
softly  but  surely  to  the  buried  Stadium  where  once  a  boy  of 
twelve  had  won  the  crown  of  wild  olive.  The  sheep-bells  were 
ringing  softly;  the  flocks  were  going  homeward  from  pasture. 
They  were  making  their  way  up  the  valley  now  at  the  base  of 
the  Kronos  Hill,  and  the  chime  of  their  little  bells  mingled 
with  the  wide  whispering  of  the  eternities  among  the  summits 
of  the  pine  trees.  Music  of  earth  mingled  with  the  music 
from  a  distance  that  knew  what  the  twilight  knew. 

The  tall  oblong  of  the  Museum  doorway  on  the  hill  framed 
a  tiny  picture  of  Elis,  bathed  in  green  and  tremulous  light; 
a  small  section  of  a  hillside,  a  fragment  of  empty,  poetic  coun- 
try —  Pan's  world  rather  hinted  at  than  revealed  —  a  sugges- 
tion of  evening  sky,  remote,  with  infinity  lost  in  its  distance. 
But  there  was  no  branch  of  wild  olive  flickering  across  the 
picture. 

Rosamund  missed  it  as  she  looked  from  the  room  of  the 
Hermes  out  to  the  whispering  evening  and  the  quiet  vale  of 
Olympia.  But  she  did  not  say  so  to  Dion.  He  thought  of 
it  too,  as  he  looked  with  her,  and  he  tried  to  forget  it.  The 
picture  framed  by  the  doorway  strangely  grew  dimmer  and 
yet  more  full  of  greenish  light;  the  country  of  Pan  was  fading 
in  light.  Presently  details  were  entirely  lost.  Only  an  oblong 


96  ,  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  green,  now  almost  emerald,  light  showed  from  the  chamber 
of  the  Hermes.  And  in  that  chamber  the  two  marble  figures 
were  gradually  fading;  the  athletic,  yet  miraculously  graceful, 
messenger  of  the  gods  with  the  winged  sandals,  the  tiny  child 
clinging  to  his  shoulder  with  one  little  arm  stretched  out  in  an 
enchanting  gesture  of  desire.  Still  the  child  nestled  against 
Hermes,  and  still  Hermes  contemplated  the  child,  with  a  ce- 
lestial benignity,  a  half-smiling  calmness  of  other  worlds  than 
this. 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  Emperors  the  guardian  waited 
patiently.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  visitors  who  lingered 
on  like  these  two  English,  when  the  light  was  failing,  and 
surely  it  must  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  see  the  statues 
properly.  But  Rosamund,  with  her  usual  lack  of  all  effort, 
had  captivated  him.  He  had  grown  accustomed  to  her  visits; 
he  was  even  flattered  by  them.  It  pleased  him  subtly  to  have 
in  his  care  a  treasure  such  as  the  Hermes,  to  see  which  beautiful 
women,  the  Rosamunds  of  the  world,  traveled  from  far-off 
countries.  Rosamund's  perpetual,  and  prolonged,  visits  had 
made  him  feel  more  important  than  he  had  ever  succeeded  in 
feeling  before.  Let  the  night  come,  she  might  stay  on  there, 
if  she  chose.  He  took  very  little  account  of  Dion.  But  Rosa- 
mund was  beginning  to  assume  a  certain  vital  importance  in 
his  quiet  life. 

The  green  light  faded  into  a  very  dim  primrose;  the  music 
of  the  sheep-bells  drew  near  and  died  away  among  the  small 
houses  of  the  hamlet  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  of  Drouva;  Elis 
withdrew  itself  into  the  obscurity  that  would  last  till  the  late 
coming  of  the  waning  moon.  Of  Hermes  and  Dionysos  now 
only  the  attitudes  could  be  seen  faintly.  But  even  they  told 
of  a  golden  age,  an  age  from  which  everything  ugly,  everything 
violent,  everything  unseemly,  everything  insincere,  everything 
cruel  was  blotted  out  —  an  age  of  serenity  of  body  and  soul, 
the  age  of  the  long  peace. 

"  He's  gone,"  said  Dion  at  last 

Rosamund  got  up  slowly. 

"  You  think  he's  taken  away  the  child  because  of  us?  " 

There  was  an  almost  pathetic  sound  in  her  voice,  but  there 
was  a  smile  in  it  too. 

"  You  remember  my  stupid  remark?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  wasn't  stupid.  I  think  those  who  dare  to  have 
a  child  ought  to  keep  very  near  to  the  world  Hermes  walks  in. 


HERMES  AND  THE  CHILD  97 

They  mayn't  wear  wings  on  their  sandals,  but  the  earth  oughtn't 
to  hold  their  feet  too  fast.  Hermes  has  taught  me." 

"  No  one  could  ever  want  to  take  a  child  away  from  you," 
he  answered. 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  Emperors  they  bade  good-by  to  the 
guardian  of  the  Museum,  and  made  him  understand  that  on 
the  morrow  they  would  be  gone. 

As  he  looked  at  Dion's  gift  he  felt  for  a  moment  almost 
depressed.  He  was  accustomed  to  his  constant  visitor.  Surely 
he  would  miss  her.  She  smiled  on  him  with  her  warm  and 
very  human  cordiality  for  the  last  time,  and  went  away,  with 
her  companion,  into  the  dimness  towards  the  hill  of  Drouva. 
Then  the  guardian  pulled  the  great  door.  It  closed  with  a 
final  sound.  The  key  was  turned.  And  Hermes  was  left  un- 
troubled in  that  world  where  wings  grow  out  of  the  sandals. 


BOOK  II 
ECHO 

CHAPTER  I 

ROBIN,  whose  other  name  was  Gabriel,  arrived  at  the 
"  little  house,"  of  which  Rosamund  had  spoken  to  Dion 
upon  the  hill  of  Drouva,  early  in  the  following  year, 
on  the  last  night  of  February  to  be  exact.     For  a  long  time 
before  his  coming  his  future  home  had  been  subtly  permeated 
by  an  atmosphere  of  expectancy. 

No.  5  Little  Market  Street  was  in  Westminster,  not  far  from 
the  river  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  yet  in  a  street  which 
looked  almost  remote,  and  which  was  often  very  quiet  although 
close  to  great  arteries  of  life.  Dion  sometimes  thought  it  almost 
too  dusky  a  setting  for  his  Rosamund,  but  it  was  she  who 
had  chosen  it,  and  they  had  both  become  quickly  fond  of  it. 
It  was  a  house  with  white  paneling,  graceful  ceilings  and 
carved  fireplaces,  and  a  shallow  staircase  of  oak.  There  was 
a  tiny  but  welcoming  hall,  and  the  landing  on  the  first  floor 
suggested  potpourri,  chintz-covered  settees,  and  little  curtains 
of  chintz  moved  by  a  country  wind  coming  through  open  win- 
dows. There  were,  in  fact,  chintz-covered  settees,  and  there 
was  potpourri.  Rosamund  had  taken  care  about  that;  she 
had  also  taken  care  about  many  other  little  things  which  most 
London  housewives,  perhaps,  think  unworthy  of  their  atten- 
tion. Every  day,  for  instance,  she  burnt  lavender  about  the 
house,  and  watched  the  sweet  smoke  in  tiny  wreaths  curling 
up  from  the  small  shovel,  as  she  gently  moved  it  to  and  fro, 
with  a  half  smile  of  what  she  called  "  rustic  satisfaction." 
She  laid  lavender  in  the  cupboards  and  in  the  chests  of  drawers, 
and,  when  she  bought  flowers,  chose  by  preference  cottage  gar- 
den flowers,  if  she  could  get  them,  sweet  williams,  pansies,  pinks, 
wallflowers,  white  violets,  stocks,  Canterbury  bells.  Sometimes 
she  came  home  with  wild  flowers,  and  had  once  given  a  little 

99 


ioo  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

dinner  with  foxgloves  for  a  table  decoration.  An  orchid,  a 
gardenia,  even  a  hyacinth,  was  never  to  be  seen  in  the  little 
house.  Rosamund  confessed  that  hyacinths  had  a  lovely  name, 
and  that  they  suggested  spring,  but  she  added  that  they  smelt 
as  if  they  had  always  lived  in  hothouses,  and  were  quite  ready 
to  be  friends  with  gardenias. 

She  opened  her  windows.  In  this  she  was  almost  too 
rigorous  for  her  maid-servants,  who  nevertheless  adored  her. 
"  Plenty  of  warmth  but  plenty  of  air,"  was  her  prescription 
for  a  comfortable  and  healthy  house,  "  and  not  too  much  or 
too  many  of  anything."  Dust,  of  course,  was  not  to  be  known 
of  in  her  dwelling,  but  "  blacks  "  were  accepted  with  a  certain 
resignation  as  a  natural  chastening  and  a  message  from  Lon- 
don. "  They  aren't  our  fault,  Annie,"  she  had  been  known 
to  observe  to  the  housemaid.  "  And  dust  can't  be  anything 
else,  however  you  look  at  it,  can  it?  "  And  Annie  said,  "  Well, 
no,  ma'am!  "  and,  when  she  came  to  think  of  it,  felt  she  had 
not  been  a  liar  in  the  moment  of  speaking. 

Rosamund  never  "  splashed,"  or  tried  to  make  a  show  in 
her  house,  and  she  was  very  careful  never  to  exceed  their 
sufficient,  but  not  large,  income;  but  the  ordinary  things,  those 
things  which  of  necessity  come  into  the  scheme  of  everyday 
life,  were  always  of  the  very  best  when  she  provided  them. 
Dion  declared,  and  really  believed,  perhaps  with  reason,  that 
no  tea  was  so  fragrant,  no  bread  and  butter  so  delicious,  no 
toast  so  crisp,  as  theirs;  no  other  linen  felt  so  cool  and  fresh 
to  the  body  as  the  linen  on  the  beds  of  the  little  house;  no 
other  silver  glittered  so  brightly  as  the  silver  on  their  round 
breakfast-table;  no  other  little  white  window  curtains  in  Lon- 
don managed  to  look  so  perennially  fresh,  and  almost  blithe, 
as  the  curtains  which  hung  at  their  windows.  Rosamund  and 
Annie  might  have  conversations  together  on  the  subject  of 
"  blacks,"  but  Dion  never  saw  any  of  these  distressing  visitants. 
The  mere  thought  of  Rosamund  would  surely  keep  them  at 
a  more  than  respectful  distance. 

She  proved  to  be  a  mistress  of  detail,  and  a  housekeeper 
whose  enthusiasm  was  matched  by  her  competence.  At  first 
Dion  had  been  rather  surprised  when  he  followed  from  afar, 
as  is  becoming  in  a  man,  this  development.  Before  they  settled 
down  in  London  he  had  seen  in  Rosamund  the  enthusiastic 
artist,  the  joyous  traveler,  the  good  comrade,  the  gay  sports- 
woman touched  with  Amazonian  glories;  he  had  known  in  her 
the  deep  lover  of  pure  beauty;  he  had  divined  in  her  something 


ECHO  101 

else,  a  little  strange,  a  little  remote,  the  girl  to  whom  the 
"  Paradiso  "  was  a  door  opening  into  dreamland,  the  girl  who 
escaped  sometimes  almost  mysteriously  into  regions  he  knew 
nothing  of ;  but  he  had  not  seen  in  her  one  capable  of  absolutely 
reveling  in  the  humdrum.  Evidently,  then,  he  had  not  grasped 
the  full  meaning  of  a  genuine  joie  de  vivre. 

To  everything  she  did  Rosamund  brought  zest.  She  kept 
house  as  she  sang  "  The  heart  ever  faithful,"  holding  nothing 
back.  Everything  must  be  right  if  she  could  get  it  right;  and 
the  husband  got  the  benefit,  incidentally.  Now  and  then  Dion 
found  himself  mentally  murmuring  that  word.  A  great  love 
will  do  such  things  unreasonably.  For  Rosamund's  joie  de 
vivre,  that  gift  of  the  gods,  caused  her  to  love  and  rejoice  in  a 
thing  for  the  thing's  own  sake,  as  it  seemed,  rather  than  for 
the  sake  of  some  one,  any  one,  who  was  eventually  to  gain  by 
the  thing.  Thus  she  cared  for  her  little  house  with  a  sort  of 
joyous  devotion  and  energy,  but  because  it  was  "  my  little 
house  "  and  deserved  every  care  she  could  give  it.  Rather  as 
she  had  spoken  of  the  small  olive  tree  on  Drouva,  of  the  Hermes 
of  Olympia,  even  of  Athens,  she  spoke  of  it,  with  a  sort  of 
protective  affection,  as  if  she  thought  of  it  as  a  living  thing 
confided  to  her  keeping.  She  possessed  a  faculty  not  very 
common  in  women,  a  delight  in  doing  a  thing  for  its  own  sake, 
rather  than  for  the  sake  of  some  human  being  —  perhaps  a  man. 
If  she  boiled  an  egg  —  she  went  to  the  kitchen  and  did  this 
sometimes  —  she  seemed  personally  interested  in  the  egg,  and 
keenly  anxious  to  do  the  best  by  it;  the  boiling  must  be  a 
pleasure  to  her,  but  also  to  the  egg,  and  it  must,  if  possible,  be 
supremely  well  done.  As  the  cook  once  said,  after  a  culinary 
effort  by  Rosamund,  "  I  never  seen  a  lady  care  for  cooking 
and  all  such-like  as  she  done.  If  she  as  much  as  plucked  a 
fowl,  you'd  swear  she  loved  every  feather  of  it.  And  as  to 
a  roast,  she  couldn't  hardly  seem  to  set  more  store  by  it  if 
it  was  her  own  husband." 

Such  a  spirit  naturally  made  for  comfort  in  a  house,  and 
Dion  had  never  before  been  so  comfortable.  Nevertheless  — 
and  he  knew  it  with  a  keen  savoring  of  appreciation  —  there 
was  a  Spartan  touch  to  be  felt  in  the  little  house.  Comfort 
walked  hand  in  hand  with  Rosamund,  but  so  did  simplicity; 
she  was  what  the  maids  called  "  particular,"  but  she  was  not 
luxurious;  she  even  disliked  luxury,  connecting  it  with  super- 
fluity, for  which  she  had  a  feeling  amounting  almost  to  repul- 
sion. "  I  detest  the  sensation  of  sinking  down  in  things,"  was 


102  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  favorite  saying  of  hers;  and  the  way  she  lived  proved  that 
she  spoke  the  sheer  truth. 

All  through  the  house,  and  all  through  the  way  of  life  in 
it,  there  prevailed  a  "  note  "  of  simplicity,  even  of  plainness. 
The  odd  thing,  perhaps,  was  that  it  pleased  almost  every  one 
who  visited  the  young  couple.  A  certain  well-known  man, 
noted  as  a  Sybarite,  clever,  decadent  and  sought  after,  once 
got  into  the  house,  he  pretended  by  stealth,  and  spent  half  an 
hour  there  in  conversation  with  Rosamund.  He  came  away 
"  acutely  conscious  of  my  profound  vulgarity,"  as  he  explained 
later  to  various  friends.  "  Her  house  revealed  to  me  the  hideous 
fact  that  all  the  best  hou-es  in  London  smack  of  cocotte-try; 
the  trail  of  cushions  and  liqueurs  is  over  them  all.  Mrs.  Leith's 
house  is  a  vestal,  and  its  lamp  is  always  trimmed."  Daven- 
try's  comment  on  this  was:  "Trimmed  —  yes,  but  trimmings 
—  no!" 

Even  Esme  Darlington  highly  approved  of  the  "  charming 
sobriety  of  No.  5  Little  Market  Street,"  although  he  had  had 
no  hand  in  its  preparation,  no  voice  in  the  deciding  of  its 
colors,  its  ?  tuffs,  its  rugs,  or  its  stair-rods.  He  was  even  heard 
to  declare  that  "  our  dear  Rosamund  is  almost  the  only  woman 
I  know  who  has  the  precious  instinct  of  reticence;  an  instinct 
denied,  by  the  way,  even  to  that  delightful  and  marvelous 
creature  Elizabeth  Browning  —  rcquiescat." 

The  "charming  sobriety"  was  shown  in  various  ways:  in  a 
lack  of  those  enormous  cushions  which  most  women  either 
love,  or  think  necessary,  in  all  sitting-rooms;  in  the  comparative 
smallness  of  such  sofas  as  were  to  be  seen;  in  the  moderation 
of  depth  in  arm-chairs,  and  in  the  complete  absence  of  foot- 
stools. Then  the  binding  of  the  many  books,  scattered  about 
here  and  there,  and  ranged  on  shelves,  was  "  quiet  ";  there  was 
no  scarlet  and  gold,  or  bright  blue  and  gold;  pictures  were  good 
but  few;  not  many  rugs  lay  on  the  polished  wooden  floors,  and 
there  was  no  litter  of  ornaments  or  bibelots  on  cabinets  or 
tables.  A  couple  of  small  statuettes,  copies  of  bronzes  in  the 
Naples  Museum,  and  some  bits  of  blue-and-white  china  made 
their  pleasant  effect  the  more  easily  because  they  had  not  to 
fight  against  an  army  of  rivals.  There  was  some  good  early 
English  glass  in  the  small  dining-room,  and  a  few  fine 
specimens  of  luster  ware  made  a  quiet  show  in  Dion's  little 
den.  Apart  from  the  white  curtains,  and  outer  curtains  of 
heavier  material,  which  hung  at  all  the  windows,  there  were  no 
"  draperies."  Overmantels,  "  cosy-corners,"  flung  Indian 


ECHO  103 

shawls,  "  pieces  "  snatched  from  bazaars,  and  "  carelessly  " 
hung  over  pedestals  and  divans  found  no  favor  in  Rosamund's 
eyes.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  homely  chintz  about  which  lit 
up  the  rather  old-fashioned  rooms,  and  colors  throughout  the 
house  were  rather  soft  than  hard,  were  never  emphatic  or  de- 
signed to  startle  or  impress. 

Rosamund,  indeed,  was  by  far  the  most  vivid  thing  in  the 
house,  and  some  people  —  not  males  —  said  she  had  taken  care 
to  supply  for  herself  a  background  which  would  "  throw  her 
up."  These  people,  if  they  believed  what  they  said,  did  not 
know  her. 

She  had  on  the  first  floor  a  little  sitting-room  all  to  herself; 
in  this  were  now  to  be  found  the  books  which  had  been  in 
her  bedroom  in  Great  Cumberland  Place;  the  charwoman's 
black  tray  with  the  cabbage  rose,  the  mug  from  Greenwich, 
the  flesh-colored  vase,  the  china  cow,  the  toy  trombone,  and 
other  souvenirs  of  her  girlhood  to  which  Rosamund  "  held." 
On  the  brass-railed  shelf  of  the  writing-table  stood  a  fine 
photogravure  of  the  Hermes  of  Olympia  with  little  Dionysos 
on  his  arm.  Very  often,  many  times  every  day,  Rosamund 
looked  up  at  Hermes  and  the  Child  from  account  books,  letters 
or  notes,  and  then  the  green  dream  of  Elis  fell  about  her 
softly  again;  and  sometimes  she  gazed  beyond  the  Hermes,  but 
instead  of  the  wall  of  the  chamber  she  saw,  set  in  an  oblong 
frame,  and  bathed  in  green  twilight,  a  bit  of  the  world  of  Pan, 
with  a  branch  of  wild  olive  flickering  across  the  foreground; 
or,  now  and  then,  she  saw  a  falling  star,  dropping  from  its  place 
in  the  sky  down  towards  a  green  wilderness,  and  carrying  a 
wish  from  her  with  it,  a  wish  that  was  surely  soon  to  be  granted. 
Her  life  in  the  little  house  had  been  a  happy  life  hitherto,  but 
—  she  looked  again  at  the  little  Dionysos  on  the  arm  of  Hermes, 
nestling  against  his  shoulder  —  how  much  happier  it  was  going 
to  be,  how  much  happier!  She  was  not  surprised,  for  deep 
in  her  heart  she  always  expected  happiness. 

People  had  been  delightful  to  her  and  to  Dion.  Indeed, 
they  had  flocked  to  the  small  green  door  (the  Elis  door)  of 
5  Little  Market  Street  in  almost  embarrassing  numbers.  That 
was  partly  Mr.  Darlington's  fault.  Naturally  Rosamund's 
and  Bruce  Evelin's  friends  came;  and  of  course  Dion's  rela- 
tions and  friends  came.  That  would  really  have  been  enough. 
Rosamund  enjoyed,  but  was  not  at  all  "  mad  about,"  society, 
and  had  no  wish  to  give  up  the  greater  part  of  her  time  to 
paying  calls.  But  Mr.  Darlington  could  not  forbear  from  kind 


104  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

efforts  on  behalf  of  his  delightful  young  friends,  that  gifted 
and  beautiful  creature  Rosamund  Leith,  and  her  pleasant  young 
husband.  He,  who  found  time  for  everything,  found  time  to 
give  more  than  one  "  little  party,  just  a  few  friends,  no  more," 
specially  for  them;  and  the  end  of  it  was  that  they  found 
themselves  acquainted  with  almost  too  many  interesting  and 
delightful  people. 

At  first,  too,  Rosamund  continued  to  sing  at  concerts,  but 
at  the  end  of  July,  after  their  return  from  Greece,  when  the 
London  season  closed,  she  gave  up  doing  so  for  the  time,  and 
accepted  no  engagements  for  the  autumn.  Esme  Darlington 
was  rather  distressed.  He  worked  very  hard  in  the  arts  him- 
self, and,  having  "  launched  "  Rosamund,  he  expected  great 
things  of  her,  and  wished  her  to  go  forward  from  success  to 
success.  Besides  "  the  money  would  surely  come  in  very 
handy  "  to  two  young  people  as  yet  only  moderately  well  off. 
He  did  not  quite  understand  the  situation.  Of  course  he  real- 
ized that  in  time  young  married  people  might  have  home 
interests,  home  claims  upon  them  which  might  necessitate  cer- 
tain changes  of  procedure.  The  day  might  come  —  he  sin- 
cerely hoped  it  would  —  when  a  new  glory,  possibly  even  more 
than  one,  would  be  added  to  the  delightful  Rosamund's  crown; 
but  in  the  meanwhile  surely  the  autumn  concerts  need  not  be 
neglected.  He  had  heard  no  hint  as  yet  of  any  —  h'm,  ha! 
He  stroked  his  carefully  careless  beard.  But  he  had  left  town 
in  August  with  his  curiosity  unsatisfied,  leaving  Rosamund  and 
Dion  behind  him.  They  had  had  their  holiday,  and  had 
stayed  steadily  on  in  Little  Market  Street  through  the  summer, 
taking  Saturday  to  Monday  runs  into  the  country;  more  than 
once  to  the  seacoast  of  Kent,  where  Bruce  Evelin  and  Beatrice 
were  staying,  and  once  to  Worcestershire  to  Dion's  mother,  who 
had  taken  a  cottage  there  close  to  the  borders  of  Warwickshire. 
The  autumn  had  brought  people  back  to  town,  and  it  was  in 
the  autumn  that  Rosamund  withdrew  from  all  contact  with 
the  hurly-burly  of  London.  She  had  no  fears  at  all  for  her 
body,  none  of  those  sick  terrors  which  some  women  have  as 
their  time  draws  near,  no  premonitions  of  disaster  or  presages 
of  death,  but  she  desired  to  "  get  ready,"  and  her  way  of  getting 
ready  was  to  surround  her  life  with  a  certain  stillness,  to  build 
about  it  white  walls  of  peace.  Often  when  Dion  was  away  in 
the  City  she  went  out  alone  and  visited  some  church.  Some- 
times she  spent  an  hour  or  two  in  Westminster  Abbey;  and  on 
many  dark  afternoons  she  made  her  way  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral 


ECHO  105 

where,  sitting  a  long  way  from  the  choir,  she  listened  to  even- 
song. The  beautiful  and  tenderly  cool  singing  of  the  distant 
boys  came  to  her  like  something  she  needed,  something  to 
which  her  soul  was  delicately  attuned.  One  afternoon  they 
and  the  men,  who  formed  the  deeply  melodious  background  from 
which  their  crystalline  voices  seemed  to  float  forward  and 
upward,  sang  "  The  Wilderness  "  of  Wesley.  Rosamund  list- 
ened to  it,  thankful  that  she  was  alone,  and  remembering  many 
things,  among  them  the  green  wilderness  beneath  the  hill  of 
Drouva. 

Very  seldom  she  spoke  to  Dion  about  these  excursions  of 
hers.  There  was  something  in  her  feeling  for  religion  which 
loved  reserve  rather  than  expression;  she  who  was  so  forth- 
coming in  many  moments  of  her  life,  who  was  genial  and  gay, 
who  enjoyed  laughter  and  was  always  at  home  with  humanity, 
knew  very  well  how  to  be  silent.  There  was  a  saying  she  cared 
for,  "  God  speaks  to  man  in  the  silence;  "  perhaps  she  felt 
there  was  a  suspicion  of  irreverence  in  talking  to  any  one,  even 
to  Dion,  about  her  aspiration  to  God.  If,  on  his  return  home, 
he  asked  her  how  she  had  passed  the  day,  she  often  said  only, 
"  I've  been  very  happy."  Then  he  said  to  himself,  "  What 
more  can  I  want?  I'm  able  to  make  her  happy." 

One  windy  evening  in  January,  when  an  icy  sleet  was  driving 
over  the  town,  as  he  came  into  the  little  hall,  he  found  Rosa- 
mund at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  with  a  piece  of  mother's  work 
in  her  hand,  about  to  go  into  the  drawing-room  which  was  on 
the  ground  floor  of  the  house. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  the  little  white  something 
she  was  holding,  "  do  you  think  we  shall  both  feel  ever  so 
much  older  in  March?  It  will  be  in  March,  won't  it?  " 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answered,  with  a  sort  of  deeply  tranquil 
gravity. 

"  In  March  when  we  are  parents?  " 

"Are  you  worrying  about  that?"  she  asked  him,  smiling 
now,  but  with,  in  her  voice,  a  hint  of  reproach. 

"Worrying  —  no.     But  do  you?" 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  drawing-room,"  she  said. 

When  they  were  there  she  answered  him: 

"  Absolutely  different,  but  not  necessarily  older.  Feeling 
older  must  be  very  like  feeling  old,  I  think  —  and  I  can't 
imagine  feeling  old." 

"  Because  probably  you  never  will." 

"Have  you  had  tea,  Dion?  " 


106  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes,  at  the  Greville.  I  promised  I'd  meet  Guy  there 
to-day.  He  spoke  about  Beattie." 

"Yes?" 

"  Do  you  think  Beattie  would  marry  him  if  he  asked  her?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  sat  down  in  the  firelight  near  the  hearth,  and  bent  a 
little  over  her  work  on  the  tiny  garment,  which  looked  as  if 
it  were  intended  for  the  use  of  a  fairy.  Dion  looked  at  her 
head  with  its  pale  hair.  As  he  leaned  forward  he  could  see 
all  the  top  of  her  head.  The  firelight  made  some  of  her  hair 
look  quite  golden,  gave  a  sort  of  soft  sparkle  to  the  curve  of 
it  about  her  broad,  pure  forehead. 

"  Guy's  getting  desperate,"  he  said.  "  But  he's  afraid  to 
put  his  fortune  to  the  test.  He  thinks  even  uncertainty  is 
better  than  knowledge  of  the  worst." 

"  Of  one  thing  I'm  certain,  Dion.  Beattie  doesn't  love  Guy 
Daventry." 

"  Oh  well,  then,  it's  all  up." 

Rosamund  looked  up  from  the  little  garment. 

"  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  But  if  Beattie  —  but  Beattie's  the  soul  of  sincerity." 

"  Yes,  I  know;  but  I  think  she  might  consent  to  marry 
Guy  Daventry." 

"  But  why?  " 

"  I  don't  know  exactly.     She  never  told  me.     I  just  feel  it." 

"  Oh,  if  you  feel  it,  I'm  sure  it  is  so.  But  how  awfully  odd. 
Isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  it  really  is  rather  odd  in  Beattie.  Do  you  want 
Beattie  to  marry  Guy  Daventry?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.     Don't  you?  " 

"Dear  Beattie!  I  want  her  to  be  happy.  But  I  think  it's 
very  difficult,  even  when  one  knows  some  one  very,  very  well, 
to  know  just  how  she  can  get  happiness,  through  just  what." 

"  Rose,  have  I  made  you  happy?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  As  happy  as  you  could  be?  " 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  you  will  have  —  soon." 

"  Oh,  you  mean ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  went  on  stitching  quietly.  Her  hands  looked  very  con- 
tented. Dion  drew  up  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire  with  a  move- 
ment that  was  rather  brusk.  It  just  struck  him  that  his  walk 
home  in  the  driving  sleet  had  decidedly  chilled  his  body. 


ECHO  107 

"  I  believe  I  know  what  you  mean  about  Beattie,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  looking  into  the  fire.  "  But  do  you  think  that 
would  be  fair  to  Guy?  " 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  myself  what  I  mean,  honestly,  Dion." 

"Well,  let's  suppose  it.     If  it  were  so,  would  it  be  fair?  " 

"  I  think  Beattie's  so  really  good  that  Mr.  Daventry,  as  he 
loves  her,  could  scarcely  be  unhappy  with  her." 

Dion  thought  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 

"  Perhaps  with  Guy  it  wouldn't  be  unfair,  but,  you  know, 
Rose,  that  sort  of  thing  wouldn't  do  with  some  men.  Some 
men  could  never  stand  being  married  for  anything  but  the  one 
great  reason." 

He  did  not  explain  what  that  reason  was,  and  Rosamund 
did  not  ask.  There  was  a  sort  of  wide  and  sweet  tranquillity 
about  her  that  evening.  Dion  noticed  that  it  seemed  to  increase 
upon  her,  and  about  her,  as  the  days  passed  by.  She  showed 
no  sign  of  nervousness,  had  evidently  no  dread  at  all  of  bodily 
pain.  Either  she  trusted  in  her  splendid  health,  or  she  was 
so  wrapped  up  in  the  thought  of  the  joy  of  being  a  mother  that 
the  darkness  to  be  passed  through  did  not  trouble  her;  or  per- 
haps —  he  wondered  about  this  —  she  was  all  the  time  schooling 
herself,  looking  up,  in  •  memory,  to  the  columns  of  the 
Parthenon.  He  was  much  more  strung  up,  much  more  restless 
and  excitable  than  she  was,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 
Always  singularly  unconscious  of  herself,  she  seemed  at  this 
period  to  be  also  unobservant  of  those  about  her.  He  felt  that 
she  was  being  deliberately  egoistic  for  a  great  reason,  that  she 
was  caring  for  herself,  soul  and  body,  with  a  sort  of  deep  and 
quiet  intensity  because  of  the  child. 

"  She  is  right,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  strove  in  all  ways 
in  his  power  to  aid  her  beautiful  selfishness;  nevertheless  some- 
times he  felt  shut  out;  sometimes  he  felt  as  if  already  the 
unseen  was  playing  truant  over  the  seen.  He  was  conscious 
of  the  child's  presence  in  the  little  house  through  Rosamund's 
way  of  being  before  he  saw  the  child.  He  wondered  what 
other  women  were  like  in  such  periods,  whether  Rosamund  was 
instinctively  conforming  to  an  ancient  tradition  of  her  sex, 
or  whether  she  was,  as  usual,  strongly  individualistic.  In 
many  ways  she  was  surely  not  like  other  women,  but  perhaps 
in  these  wholly  natural  crises  every  woman  resembled  all  her 
sisters  who  were  traveling  towards  the  same  sacred  condition. 
He  longed  to  satisfy  himself  whether  this  was  so  or  not,  and 
one  Saturday  afternoon,  when  Rosamund  was  resting  in  her 


io8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

little  sitting-room  with  a  book,  and  the  Hermes  watching  over 
her,  he  bicycled  to  Jenkins's  gymnasium  in  the  Harrow  Road, 
resolved  to  put  in  forty  minutes'  hard  work,  and  then  to  visit 
his  mother.  Mrs.  Leith  and  Rosamund  seemed  to  be  excellent 
friends,  but  Dion  never  discussed  his  wife  with  his  mother. 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  do  so.  On  this  day,  how- 
ever, instinctively  he  turned  to  his  mother;  he  thought  that  she 
might  help  him  towards  a  clearer  knowledge  of  Rosamund. 

Rosamund  had  long  ago  been  formally  made  known  to  Bob 
Jenkins,  Jim's  boxing  "  coach,"  who  enthusiastically  approved 
of  her,  though  he  had  never  ventured  to  put  his  opinion  quite 
in  that  form  to  Dion.  Even  Jenkins,  perhaps,  had  his  subtle- 
ties, those  which  a  really  good  heart  cannot  rid  itself  of. 
Rosamund,  in  return,  had  made  Dion  known  to  her  extraor- 
dinary friend,  Mr.  Thrush  of  Abingdon  Buildings,  John's 
Court,  near  the  Edgware  Road,  the  old  gentleman  who  went 
to  fetch  his  sin  every  evening,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  at  various 
other  times  also,  in  a  jug  from  the  "  Daniel  Lambert."  Dion 
had  often  laughed  over  Rosamund's  "  cult "  for  Mr.  Thrush, 
which  he  scarcely  pretended  to  understand,  but  Rosamund  re- 
joiced in  Dion's  cult  for  the  stalwart  Jenkins. 

"  I  like  that"  man,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  some  day " 

She  stopped  there,  but  her  face  was  eloquent. 

In  his  peculiar  way  Jenkins  was  undoubtedly  Doric,  and 
therefore  deserving  of  Rosamund's  respect.  Of  Mr.  Thrush 
so  much  could  hardly  be  said  with  truth.  In  him  there  were 
to  be  found  neither  the  stern  majesty  and  strength  of  the  Doric, 
nor  the  lightness  and  grace  of  the  Ionic.  As  an  art  product 
he  stood  alone,  always  wearing  the  top  hat,  a  figure  Degas 
might  have  immortalized  but  had  unfortunately  never  seen. 
Dion  knew  that  Mr.  Thrush  had  once  rescued  Rosamund  in  a 
fog  and  had  convoyed  her  home,  and  he  put  the  rest  of  the 
Thrush  matter  down  to  Rosamund's  genial  kindness  towards 
downtrodden  and  unfortunate  people.  He  loved  her  for  it, 
but  could  not  help  being  amused  by  it. 

When  Dion  arrived  at  the  gymnasium,  Jenkins  was  giving 
a  lesson  to  a  small  boy  of  perhaps  twelve  years  old,  whose 
mother  was  looking  eagerly  on.  The  boy,  clad  in  a  white 
"  sweater,"  was  flushed  with  the  ardor  of  his  endeavors  to  punch 
the  ball,  to  raise  himself  up  on  the  bar  till  his  chin  was  between 
his  hands,  to  vault  the  horse  neatly,  and  to  turn  somersaults 
on  the  rings.  The  primrose-colored  hair  on  his  small  round 
head  was  all  ruffled  up,  perspiration  streamed  over  his  pink 


ECHO  109 

rosy  cheeks,  his  eyes  shone  with  determination,  and  his  little 
white  teeth  were  gritted  as,  with  all  the  solemn  intensity  of 
childhood,  he  strove  to  obey  on  the  instant  Jenkins's  loud  words 
of  command.  It  was  obvious  that  he  looked  to  Jenkins  as 
a  savage  looks  to  his  Tribal  God.  His  anxious  but  admiring 
mother  was  forgotten;  the  world  was  forgotten;  Jenkins  and 
the  small  boy  were  alone  in  a  universe  of  grip  dumb-bells, 
heavy  weights,  "  exercisers,"  boxing  gloves,  horizontal  bars, 
swinging  balls  and  wooden  "  horses."  Dion  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  looked  on  till  the  lesson  was  finished.  It  ended  with 
a  heavy  clap  on  the  small  boy's  shoulders  from  the  mighty  paw 
of  Jenkins,  and  a  stentorian,  "  You're  getting  along  and  no 
mistake,  Master  Tim!  " 

The  face  of  Master  Tim  at  this  moment  was  a  study.  All 
the  flags  of  triumph  and  joy  were  hung  out  in  it  and  floated  on 
the  breeze;  a  soul  appeared  at  the  two  windows  shining  with 
perfect  happiness;  and,  mysteriously,  in  all  the  little  figure, 
from  the  ruffled  primrose-colored  feathers  of  hair  to  the  feet 
in  the  white  shoes,  the  pride  of  manhood  looked  forth  through 
the  glowing  rapture  of  a  child. 

"What  a  jolly  boy!  "  said  Dion  to  Jenkins,  when  Master 
Tim  and  his  mother  had  departed.  "  It  must  be  good  to  have 
a  boy  like  that." 

"  I  hope  you'll  have  one  some  day,  sir,"  said  Jenkins,  speak- 
ing heartily  in  his  powerful  voice,  but  looking,  for  the  moment, 
unusually  severe. 

He  and  Bert,  his  wife,  had  had  one  child,  a  girl,  which  had 
died  of  quinsy,  and  they  had  never  had  another. 

"Now  I'm  ready  for  you,  sir!  "  he  added,  with  a  sort  of 
outburst  of  recovery.  "  I  should  like  a  round  with  the  gloves 
to-day,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

It  was  all  the  same  to  Dion,  and,  when  he  reached  Queen 
Anne's  Mansions  in  the  darkness  of  evening,  he  was  still 
glowing  from  the  exercise;  the  blood  sang  through  his  veins, 
and  his  heart  was  almost  as  light  as  his  step. 

Marion,  the  parlor-maid,  let  him  in,  and  told  him  his  mother 
was  at  home.  Dion  put  his  hand  to  his  lips,  stole  across  the 
hall  noiselessly,  softly  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  and 
caught  his  mother  unawares. 

\Yhenever  he  came  into  the  well-known  flat  alone,  he  had 
a  moment  of  retrogression,  went  back  to  his  unmarried  time, 
and  was  again,  as  for  so  many  years,  in  the  intimate  life  of  his 
mother.  But  to-day,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  was  abruptly 


no  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

thrust  out  of  his  moment.  His  mother  was  in  her  usual  place 
on  the  high-backed  sofa  near  the  fire.  She  was  doing  nothing, 
was  just  sitting  with  her  hands,  in  their  wrinkled  gloves,  folded 
in  her  lap,  and  her  large,  round  blue  eyes  looking.  Dion 
thought  of  them  as  looking  because  they  were  wide  open,  but 
they  were  strangely  emptied  of  expression.  All  of  his  mother 
seemed  to  him  for  just  the  one  instant  which  followed  on  his 
entrance  to  be  emptied,  as  if  the  woman  he  had  always  known 
—  loving,  satirical,  clever,  kind,  observant  —  had  been  poured 
away.  The  effect  upon  him  was  one  of  indescribable,  almost 
of  horrible,  dreariness.  Omar  Khayyam,  his  mother's  black 
pug,  was  not  in  the  room  as  usual,  stretched  out  before  the  fire. 

Even  as  Dion  realized  this,  his  mother  was  poured  back 
into  the  round  face  and  plump  figure  beside  the  fire,  and  greeted 
him  with  the  usual  almost  saccharine  sweet  smile,  and: 

"  Dee-ar,  I  wasn't  expecting  you  to-day.  How  is  the  be- 
loved one?  " 

"  The  beloved  one "  was  Mrs.  Leith's  rendering  of  Rosa- 
mund. 

"  How  particularly  spry  you  look,"  she  added.  "  I'm  cer- 
tain it's  the  Jenkins  paragon.  You've  been  standing  up  to 
him.  Now,  haven't  you  ?  " 

Dion  acknowledged  that  he  had,  and  added: 

"But  you,  mother?     How  are  you?  " 

"  Quite  wickedly  well.  I  ought  to  be  down  with  influenza 
like  all  well-bred  people, —  Esme  Darlington  has  it  badly, — 
but  I  cannot  compass  even  one  sneeze." 

"Where's  Omar?" 

Mrs.  Leith  looked  grave. 

"  Poor  little  chap,  we  must  turn  down  an  empty  glass  for 
him." 

"What  —  you  don't  mean ?" 

"  Run  over  yesterday  just  outside  the  Mansions,  and  by  a 
four-wheeler.  I'm  sure  he  never  expected  that  the  angel  of 
death  would  come  for  him  in  a  growler,  poor  little  fellow." 

"I  say!  Little  Omar  dead!  What  a  beastly  shame! 
Mother,  I  am  sorry." 

He  sat  down  beside  her;  he  was  beset  by  a  sensation  of 
calamity.  Oddly  enough  the  hammer  of  fate  had  never  yet 
struck  on  him  so  definitely  as  now  with  the  death  of  a  dog. 
But,  without  quite  realizing  it,  he  was  considering  poor  black 
Omar  as  an  important  element  in  his  mother's  life,  now 
abruptly  withdrawn.  Omar  had  been  in  truth  a  rather  greedy, 


ECHO  111 

self-seeking  animal,  but  he  had  also  been  a  companion,  an 
adherent,  a  friend. 

"  You  must  get  another  dog,"  Dion  added  quickly.  "  I'll 
find  you  one." 

"Good  of  you,  dee-ar  boy!  But  I'm  too  old  to  begin  on 
a  new  dog." 

"What  nonsense!  " 

"  It  isn't.  I  feel  I'm  losing  my  nameless  fascination  for 
dogs.  A  poodle  barked  at  me  this  afternoon  in  Victoria  Street. 
One  can't  expect  one's  day  to  last  for  ever,  though,  really,  some 
Englishwomen  seem  to.  But,  tell  me,  how  is  the  beloved  one?  " 

"  Oh  —  to  be  sure !     I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  Rose." 

The  smile  became  very  sweet  and  welcoming  on  Mrs.  Leith's 
handsome  round  face. 

"  There's  nothing  wrong,  I'm  sure.  Your  Rosamund  sheds 
confidence  in  her  dear  self  like  a  light  all  round  her." 

"  Nothing  wrong  —  no.     I  didn't  mean  that." 

Dion  paused.  Now  he  was  with  his  mother  he  did  not  know 
how  to  explain  himself;  his  reason  for  coming  began  to  seem, 
even,  to  himself,  a  little  vague. 

"  It's  a  little  difficult,"  he  began  at  last,  "  but  I've  been 
wondering  rather  about  women  who  are  as  Rosamund  is  just 
now.  D'you  think  all  women  become  a  good  deal  alike  at 
such  times  ?  " 

"  In  spirit,  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well  —  yes,  of  course." 

"  I  scarcely  know." 

"  I  mean  do  they  concentrate  on  the  child  a  long  while  before 
it  comes." 

"  Many  smart  women  certainly  don't." 

"Oh,  smart  women!     I  mean  women." 

"  A  good  definition,  dee-ar.  Well,  lots  of  poor  women  don't 
concentrate  on  the  child  either.  They  have  far  too  much  to 
do  and  worry  about.  They  are  '  seeing  to  '  things  up  till  the 
very  last  moment." 

"  Then  we  must  rule  them  out.  Let's  say  the  good  women 
who  have  the  time." 

"  I  expect  a  great  many  of  them  do,  if  the  husband  lets 
them." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Dion  rather  sharply. 

"  There  are  a  few  husbands,  you  see,  who  get  fidgety  directly 
the  pedestal  on  which  number  one  thinks  himself  firmly  estab- 
lished begins  to  shake." 


112  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

'Stupid  fools!" 

'  Eminently  human  stupid  fools." 

'Are  they?" 

'  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

'  Perhaps.     But  then  humanity's  contemptible." 

'  Extra-humanity,  or  the  attempt  at  it,  can  be  dangerous." 

'  What  do  you  mean  exactly  by  that,  mater?  " 

'  Only  that  we  have  to  be  as  we  are,  and  can  never  really 
be,  can  only  seem  to  be,  as  we  aren't." 

"  What  a  whipping  I'm  giving  to  myself  just  now !  "  was 
her  thought,  as  she  finished  speaking. 

"  Oh  —  yes,  of  course.  That's  true.  I  think  —  I  think 
Rosamund's  concentrating  on  the  child,  in  a  sort  of  quiet,  big 
way." 

"  There's  something  fine  in  that.  But  her  doings  are  ofteo 
touched  with  fineness." 

"  Yes,  aren't  they?     She  doesn't  seem  at  all  afraid." 

"  I  don't  think  she  need  be.     She  has  such  splendid  health." 

"  But  she  may  suffer  very  much." 

"  Yes,  but  something  will  carry  her  gloriously  through  all 
that,  I  expect." 

"  And  you  think  it's  very  natural,  very  usual,  her  —  her 
sort  of  living  alone  with  the  child  before  it  is  born?  " 

Mrs.  Leith  saw  in  her  son's  eyes  an  unmistakably  wistful 
look  at  this  moment.  It  was  very  very  hard  for  her  not  to 
take  him  in  her  arms  just  then,  not  to  say,  "  My  son,  d'you 
suppose  I  don't  understand  it  all  —  all?"  But  she  never 
moved,  her  hands  lay  still  in  her  lap,  and  she  replied: 

"  Very  natural,  quite  natural,  Dion.  Your  Rosamund  is 
just  being  herself." 

"  You  think  she's  able  to  live  with  the  child  already?  " 

Mrs.  Leith  hesitated  for  a  moment.  In  that  moment  cer- 
tainly she  felt  a  strong,  even  an  almost  terrible  inclination  to 
tell  a  lie  to  her  son.  But  she  answered: 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  That  must  be  very  strange,"  was  all  that  Dion  said  just 
then;  but  a  little  later  on  —  he  stayed  with  his  mother  longer 
than  usual  that  day  because  poor  little  Omar  was  dead  —  he 
remarked : 

"  D'you  know,  mater,  I  believe  it's  the  right  thing  to  be 
what's  called  a  thorough-paced  egoist  at  certain  moments,  in 
certain  situations." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  said  his  mother  incuriously. 


ECHO  113 

"  I  fancy  there's  a  good  deal  of  rot  talked  about  egoism 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  rot  talked  about  most  things." 

"  Yes,  isn't  there  ?  And  besides,  how  is  one  to  know  ?  Very 
often  what  seems  like  egoism  may  not  be  egoism  at  all.  As 
I  grow  older  I  often  feel  how  important  it  is  to  search  out  the 
real  reasons  for  things." 

"  Sometimes  they're  difficult  to  find,"  returned  his  mother, 
with  an  unusual  simplicity  of  manner. 

"  Yes,  but  still Well,  I  must  be  off." 

He  stood  up  and  looked  at  the  Indian  rug  in  front  of  the 
hearth. 

"  When  are  you  coming  to  see  us?  "  he  asked. 

"  Almost  directly,  dee-ar." 

"  That's  right.  Rosamund  likes  seeing  you.  Naturally  she 

depends  upon  you  at  such "  He  broke  off.  "  I  mean, 

do  come  as  often  as  you  can." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  his  mother. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  added,  almost  awkwardly,  "  about  that 
dog?" 

"What  dog,  dee-ar?" 

"  The  dog  I  want  to  give  you." 

"  We  must  think  about  it.  Give  me  time.  After  a  black 
pug  one  doesn't  know  all  in  a  moment  what  type  would  be  the 
proper  successor.  You  remember  your  poor  Aunt  Binn?" 

"  Aunt  Binn!     Why,  what  did  she  do?  " 

"  Gave  Uncle  Binn  a  hairless  thing  like  a  note  of  interroga- 
tion, that  had  to  sleep  in  a  coating  of  vaseline,  when  his  enor- 
mous sheep-dog  died  who  couldn't  see  for  hair.  She  believed 
in  the  value  of  contrast,  but  Uncle  Binn  didn't.  It  would  have 
led  to  a  separation  but  for  the  hectic  efforts  of  your  aunt's 
friend,  Miss  Vine.  When  I've  decided  what  type  of  dog,  I'll 
tell  you." 

Dion  understood  the  negative  and,  in  spite  of  his  feeling  of 
fitness,  went  away  rather  uncomfortably.  He  couldn't  forget 
the  strange  appearance  of  that  emptied  woman  whom  he  had 
taken  unawares  by  the  fireside.  If  only  his  mother  would  let 
him  give  her  another  dog! 

When  he  got  home  he  found  Beatrice  sitting  with  Rosamund. 

Dion  had  grown  to  be  very  fond  of  Beatrice.  He  had  always 
been  rather  touched  and  attracted  by  her  plaintive  charm,  but 
since  she  had  become  his  sister-in-law  he  had  learnt  to  ap- 
preciate also  her  rare  sincerity  and  delicacy  of  mind.  She 


114  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

could  not  grip  life,  perhaps,  could  not  mold  it  to  her  purpose 
and  desire,  but  she  could  do  a  very  sweet  and  very  feminine 
thing,  she  could  live,  without  ever  being  intrusive,  in  the  life 
of  another.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see  how  "  wrapped  up  " 
she  was  in  Rosamund.  Dion  had  come  to  feel  sure  that  it 
was  natural  to  Beatrice  to  lead  her  life  in  another's,  and  he 
believed  that  Rosamund  realized  this  and  often  let  Beatrice 
do  little  things  for  her  which,  full  of  vigor  and  "  go  "  as  she 
was,  she  would  have  preferred  to  do  for  herself. 

"  I've  been  boxing  and  then  to  see  mother,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  Beatrice's  long  narrow  hand  in  his.  "  She  sent  her  best 
love  to  you,  Rosamund." 

"The  dear  mother!  "  said  Rosamund  gently. 

Dion  sat  down  by  Beatrice. 

"  I'm  quite  upset  by  something  that's  happened,"  he  con- 
tinued. "You  know  poor  little  Omar,  Beattie?  " 

"Yes.     Is  he  ill?" 

"  Dead.     He  was  run  over  yesterday  by  a  four-wheeler." 

"Oh!"  said  Beatrice. 

"  Poor  little  dog,"  Rosamund  said,  again  gently. 

"When  they  picked  him  up  —  are  you  going,  Rose?" 

"  Only  for  a  few  minutes.  I  am  sorry.  I'll  write  to  the 
dear  mother." 

She  went  quietly  out  of  the  room.  Dion  sprang  up  to  open 
the  door  for  her,  but  she  had  been  sitting  nearer  to  the  door 
than  he,  and  he  was  too  late;  he  shut  it,  however,  and  came 
slowly  back  to  Beatrice. 

"  I  wonder "  He  looked  at  Beatrice's  pale  face  and 

earnest  dark  eyes.  "  D'you  think  Rosamund  disliked  my  men- 
tioning poor  Omar's  being  killed?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  didn't  she  leave  us  rather  abruptly?  " 

"  I  think  perhaps  she  didn't  want  to  hear  any  details.  You 
were  just  beginning  to " 

"  How  stupid  of  me!  " 

"  You  see,  Rosamund  has  the  child  to  live  for  now." 

"  Yes  —  yes.  What  blunderers  we  men  are,  however  much 
we  try " 

"  That's  not  a  blame  you  ought  to  take,"  Beatrice  inter- 
rupted, with  earnest  gentleness.  "  You  are  the  most  thought- 
ful man  I  know  —  for  a  woman,  I  mean." 

Dion  flushed. 


ECHO  115 

"  Am  I  ?  I  try  to  be.  If  I  am  it's  because  —  well,  Beattie, 
you  know  what  Rose  is  to  me." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  Dearer  and  dearer  every  day.  But  nobody Mother 

thinks  a  lot  of  her." 

"Who  doesn't?     There  aren't  many  Roses  like  ours." 

"None.  Poor  mother!  Beattie,  d'you  think  she  feels  very 
lonely?  You  know  she's  got  heaps  of  friends  —  heaps." 

"  Yes." 

"  It  isn't  as  if  she  knew  very  few  people,  or  lived  alone  in 
the  country." 

"  No,  but  I'm  very  sorry  her  little  dog's  dead." 

"  I  want  to  give  her  another." 

"  It  would  be  no  use." 

"'But  why  not?" 

"  You  see,  little  Omar  was  always  there  when  you  were 
living  there." 

"Well?" 

"  He  was  part  of  her  life  with  you." 

"Oh  — yes." 

Dion  looked  rather  hard  at  Beatrice.  In  that  moment  h& 
began  to  realize  how  much  of  the  intelligence  of  the  heart  she 
possessed,  and  how  widely  she  applied  it.  His  application  of 
his  intelligence  of  the  heart  was,  he  feared,  much  less  wide- 
spread than  hers. 

"Go  to  see  mother  when  you  can,  will  you?"  he  said. 
"  She's  very  fond  of  you,  I  think." 

"  I'll  go.     1  like  going  to  her." 

"And,  Beattie,  may  I  say  something  rather  intimate?  I'm 
your  brother  now." 

"  Yes." 

She  was  sitting  opposite  to  him  near  the  fire  on  a  low  chair. 
There  was  a  large  shaded  lamp  in  the  room,  but  it  was  on  a 
rather  distant  table.  He  saw  Beatrice's  face  by  the  firelight 
and  her  narrow  thoroughbred  figure  in  a  dark  dress.  And  the 
firelight,  he  thought,  gave  to  both  face  and  figure  a  sort  of 
strange  beauty  that  was  sad,  and  that  had  something  of  the 
strangeness  and  the  beauty  of  those  gold  and  red  castles  chil- 
dren see  in  the  fire.  They  glow  —  and  that  evening  there  was 
a  sort  of  glow  in  Beatrice;  they  crumble  —  and  there  was  a  pa- 
thetic something  in  Beatrice,  too,  which  suggested  wistful  de- 
sires, perhaps  faint  hopes  and  an  ending  of  ashes. 


n6  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Would  you  marry  old  Guy  if  he  asked  you?  Don't  be 
angry  with  me." 

"  I'm  not." 

"  Of  course  we've  all  known  for  ages  how  much  he  cares  for 
you.  He  spoke  to  me  about  it  to-day.  He's  desperately  afraid 
of  your  refusing  him.  He  daren't  put  his  fate  to  the  test 
Beattie  —  would  you?  " 

A  slow  red  crept  over  Beatrice's  face.  She  put  up  one  hand 
to  guard  herself  from  the  glow  of  the  fire.  For  a  moment  she 
looked  at  Dion,  and  he  thought,  "  What  a  strange  expression 
firelight  can  give  to  a  face!  "  Then  she  said: 

"  I  can't  tell  you." 

Her  voice  was  husky. 

"  Beattie,  you've  got  a  cold!  " 

"Have  I?" 

She  got  up. 

"  I  must  go,  Dion.     I'll  just  see  Rosamund  for  a  minute." 

As  she  left  the  room,  she  said : 

"  I'll  go  and  see  your  mother  to-morrow." 

The  door  shut.  Dion  stood  with  one  elbow  resting  on  the 
mantelpiece  and  looked  down  into  the  fire.  He  saw  his  mother 
sitting  alone,  a  strange,  emptied  figure;  he  saw  Beatrice.  And 
fire,  which  beautifies,  or  makes  romantic  and  sad  everything, 
gave  to  Beatrice  the  look  of  his  mother.  For  a  moment  his  soul 
was  full  of  questions  about  the  two  women. 


CHAPTER  II 

I'VE  joined  the  Artists'  Rifles,"  Dion  said  to  Rosamund  one 
day. 
He  spoke  almost  bruskly.  Of  late  he  had  begun  to 
develop  a  manner  which  had  just  a  hint  of  roughness  in  it  some- 
times. This  manner  was  the  expression  of  a  strong  inward 
effort  he  was  making.  If,  as  his  mother  believed,  already 
Rosamund  was  able  to  live  with  the  child,  Dion's  solitary  pos- 
session of  the  woman  he  loved  was  definitely  over,  probably 
forever.  Something  within  him  which,  perhaps,  foolishly, 
rebelled  against  this  fact  had  driven  him  to  seek  a  diversion; 
he  had  found  it  in  beginning  to  try  to  live  for  the  child  in  the 
man's  way.  He  intended  to  put  the  old  life  behind  him,  and 


ECHO  117 

to  march  vigorously  on  to  the  new.  He  called  up  Master  Tim 
before  him  in  the  little  white  "  sweater,"  with  the  primrose-col- 
ored ruffled  feathers  of  hair,  the  gritted  white  teeth,  small  al- 
most as  the  teeth  of  a  mouse,  the  moist,  ardent  cheeks,  and  the 
glowing  eyes  looking  steadfastly  to  the  Tribal  God.  He  must 
be  the  Tribal  God  to  his  little  son,  if  the  child  were  a  son. 

Rosamund  did  not  seem  surprised  by  Dion's  abrupt  state- 
ment, though  he  had  never  spoken  of  an  intention  to  join  any 
Volunteer  Corps.  She  knew  he  was  fond  of  shooting,  and  had 
been  in  camp  sometimes  when  he  was  at  a  public  school. 

"  What's  that?  "  she  asked.  "  I've  heard  of  it,  but  I  thought 
it  was  a  corps  for  men  who  are  painters,  sculptors,  writers  and 
musicians." 

"  It  was  founded,  nearly  forty  years  ago,  I  believe,  for  fel- 
lows working  in  the  Arts,  but  all  sorts  of  business  men  are  let 
in  now." 

"  Will  it  take  up  much  time?  " 

"  No;  I  shall  have  to  drill  a  certain  amount,  and  in  summer 
I  shall  go  into  camp  for  a  bit,  and  of  course,  if  a  big  war  ever 
came,  I  could  be  of  some  use." 

"  I'm  glad  you've  joined." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be.  I  shall  see  a  little  bit  less  of  you, 
I  suppose,  but,  after  all,  a  husband  can't  be  perpetually  hang- 
ing about  the  house,  can  he?  " 

Rosamund  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  then  laughed  gently. 

"  Dion,  how  absurd  you  are !  In  some  ways  you  are  only  a 
boy  still." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  A  man  who  sticks  to  business  as  you  do,  hanging  about  the 
house!  " 

"  You  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  did." 

"  No,  because  I  should  know  it  was  doing  you  harm." 

"And  besides  —  do  you  realize  how  independent  you  are?" 

"Am  I?" 

"  For  a  woman  I  think  you  are  extraordinarily  independ- 
ent." 

She  sat  still  for  a  minute,  looking  straight  before  her  in  an 
almost  curious  stillness. 

"  I  believe  I  know  why  perhaps  I  seem  so,"  she  said  at 
length. 

And  then  she  quietly,  and  very  naturally,  turned  the  con- 
versation into  another  channel;  she  was  a  quieter  Rosamund  in 
these  days  of  waiting  than  the  Rosamund  unaffected  by  mother- 


ii8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

hood.  That  Rosamund  had  been  vigorous  and  joyous;  this 
Rosamund  was  strongly  serene.  In  all  she  was  and  did  at 
this  time  Dion  felt  strength;  but  it  was  shown  chiefly  in  still- 
ness. She  worked  sometimes;  she  read  a  great  deal  sitting 
upstairs  in  her  own  little  room.  One  day  Dion  found  her 
with  a  volume  of  Tennyson;  another  day  she  was  reading 
Shakespeare's  "Henry  the  Fifth";  she  had  the  "  Paradiso  " 
at  hand,  too,  and  the  Greek  tragedians,  and  a  Greek  Testa- 
ment with  the  English  text  in  parallel  columns.  In  the  room 
there  was  a  cottage  piano,  and  one  evening,  when  Dion  had 
been  drilling  and  came  back  late,  he  heard  her  singing.  He 
stood  still  in  the  hall,  after  shutting  softly  the  door  of  the 
lobby,  and  listened  to  the  warm  and  powerful  voice  of  the 
woman  he  loved.  He  could  hear  the  words  of  the  song,  which 
was  a  setting  of  "  Lead,  kindly  Light."  Rosamund  had  only 
just  begun  singing  it  when  he  came  into  the  hall;  the  first 
words  he  caught  were,  "  The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from 
home;  lead  thou  me  on."  He  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets 
of  the  black  jacket  he  was  wearing  and  did  not  move.  He 
had  never  before  heard  Rosamund  sing  any  piece  of  music 
through  without  seeing  her  while  she  was  doing  it;  her  voice 
seemed  to  him  now  different  from  the  voice  he  knew  so  well; 
perhaps  because  he  was  uninfluenced  by  her  appearance.  That 
counted  for  much  in  the  effect  Rosamund  created  when  she 
sang  to  people.  The  thought  went  through  Dion's  mind,  "  Am 
I  really  the  husband  of  this  voice?  "  It  was  beautiful,  it  was 
fervent,  but  it  was  strange,  or  seemed  strange  to  him  as  it  came 
down  through  the  quiet  house  on  this  winter  evening.  For 
the  first  time,  listening  thus,  he  was  able  imaginatively  to  real- 
ize something  of  what  it  must  be  like  to  be  a  mystic,  or  rather, 
perhaps,  to  have  within  one  a  definite  tendency  towards  mysti- 
cism, a  definite  and  ceaseless  and  governing  aspiration  towards 
harmony  with  the  transcendental  order.  When  this  voice 
which  he  heard  above  him  sang  "  The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am 
far  from  home,"  he  felt  a  sort  of  sharp  comprehension  of  the 
real  meaning  of  homeless  wandering  such  as  he  had  certainly 
never  experienced  before.  He  felt,  too,  that  the  spirit  from 
which  this  voice  proceeded  could  never  be  at  home  in  the 
ordinary  way  of  ordinary  people,  could  not  be  at  home  even 
as  he  himself  could  be  at  home.  The  spirit  behind  this  voice 
needed  something  of  which,  till  now,  he  had  not  consciously 
felt  the  need;  something  peculiar,  out  of  the  way  and  remote 
—  something  very  different  from  human  love  and  human  com- 


ECHO  119 

fort.  Although  he  was  musical,  and  could  be  critical  about  a 
composition  according  to  his  lights,  Dion  did  not  think  about 
the  music  of  this  song  qua  music  —  could  not  have  said  how 
good  he  considered  it  to  be.  He  knew  only  that  this  was  not 
poor  or  insincere  music.  But  music  sung  in  this  peculiar  way 
was  only  a  means  by  which  the  under  part  of  a  human  being, 
that  which  has  its  existence  deep  down  under  layers  and  layers 
of  the  things  which  commonly  appear  and  are  known  of,  rose 
to  the  surface  and  announced  itself. 

The  Artists'  Rifles  —  and  this ! 

When  the  voice  was  silent,  Dion  went  slowly  upstairs.  The 
door  of  Rosamund's  little  room  was  shut.  He  paused  outside 
it,  and  stood  looking  at  it,  the  movable  barrier  of  dark  shin- 
ing wood  which  divided  him  from  the  voice.  When  he  was 
ascending  the  stairs  he  had  meant  to  go  in  to  Rosamund.  But 
now  he  hesitated,  and  presently  he  turned  away.  He  felt  that 
a  greater  barrier  than  the  door  was  between  them.  He  might 
open  the  door  easily  enough,  but  the  other  barrier  would  re- 
main. The  life  of  the  body  seemed  to  him  just  then  an  antag- 
onist to  the  life  of  the  soul. 

"  I'm  on  the  lower  plane,"  said  Dion  to  himself  that  eve- 
ning. "  If  it's  a  boy,  I  shall  have  to  look  after  his  body;  she'll 
take  care  of  the  rest.  Perhaps  mothers  always  do,  but  not  as 
she  could  and  will." 

From  this  moment  he  devoted  himself  as  much  as  possible 
to  his  body,  almost,  indeed,  with  the  ardor  of  one  possessed  by 
a  sort  of  mania.  The  Artists'  Corps  took  up  part  of  his  time; 
Jenkins  another  part;  he  practised  rifle  shooting  as  diligently 
almost  as  if  he  expected  to  have  to  take  his  place  almost  imme- 
diately in  the  field;  he  began  to  learn  fencing.  Rosamund  saw 
very  little 'of  him,  but  she  made  no  comment.  He  explained  to 
her  what  he  was  doing. 

"  You  see,  Rose,"  he  said  to  her  once,  "  if  it's  a  boy  it  will 
be  my  job  eventually  to  train  him  up  to  be  first-class  in  the 
distinctively  man's  part  of  life.  No  woman  can  ever  do  that. 
I  mustn't  let  myself  get  slack." 

"  You  never  would,  I'm  sure." 

"  I  hope  not.  Still,  lots  of  business  men  do.  And  I'm  sit- 
ting about  three-quarters  of  my  time.  One  does  get  soft,  and 
the  softer  a  chap  gets  the  less  inclined  he  is  to  make  the  effort 
required  of  him,  if  he  wants  to  get  hard.  If  I  ever  am  to  be 
the  father  of  a  growing-up  son  —  when  they  get  to  about  six- 
teen, you  know,  they  get  awfully  critical  about  games  and  ath- 


120  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

letics,  sport,  everything  of  that  kind  —  I  should  like  to  be  able 
to  keep  my  end  up  thoroughly  well  with  him.  He'd  respect 
me  far  more  then.  I  know  exactly  the  type  of  fellow  real  boys 
look  up  to.  It  isn't  the  intelligent  softy,  however  brainy  he 
may  be;  it's  the  man  who  can  do  all  the  ordinary  things  su- 
perlatively well." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  her  now  curiously  tranquil  yellow- 
brown  eyes,  and  he  thought  he  saw  in  them  approval. 

"  I  think  few  men  would  prepare  as  you  do,"  she  said. 

"  And  how  many  women  would  prepare  as  you  do?  "  he  re- 
turned. 

"  I  couldn't  do  anything  else.  But  now  I  feel  as  if  we  were 
working  together,  in  a  way." 

He  squeezed  her  hand.     She  let  it  lie  motionless  in  his. 

"  But  if  it  weren't  a  boy?  "  he  said,  struck  by  a  sudden  reac- 
tion of  doubt. 

And  the  thought  went,  like  an  arrow,  through  him: 

"  What  chance  should  I  have  then?  " 

"  I  know  it  will  be  a  boy,"  she  answered. 

"Why?  Not  because  you  sleep  north  and  south!"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  a  laughing  allusion  to  the  assertion  of  Herrick. 

"  I  don't." 

"  I  always  thought  the  bed " 

"  No,  it's  east  and  west." 

"  Fishermen  say  the  dead  sleep  east  and  west." 

"  Are  you  superstitious  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Perhaps,  where  you  are  concerned." 

"  Don't  be.  Superstition  seems  to  me  the  opposite  of  belief. 
Just  wait,  and  remember,  I  know  it  will  be  a  boy." 

One  evening  Dion  went  to  Great  Cumberland  Place  to  dine 
with  Bruce  Evelin  and  Beatrice,  leaving  Rosamund  apparently 
in  her  usual  health.  She  was  going  to  have  "  something  on 
a  tray "  in  her  sitting-room,  and  he  went  in  there  to  say 
good-by  to  her  just  before  he  started.  He  found  her  sitting  by 
the  fire,  and  looking  at  Hermes  and  the  Child  with  steady  eyes. 
They  were  lit  up  rather  faintly  by  a  couple  of  wax  candles 
placed  on  the  writing-table.  The  light  from  these  candles  and 
from  the  fire  made  a  delicate  and  soothing  radiance  in  the  room, 
which  was  plainly  furnished,  and  almost  somber  in  color.  A 
very  dim  and  cloudy  purple-blue  pervaded  it,  a  very  beautiful 
hue,  but  austere,  and  somehow  suggestive  of  things  ecclesias- 
tical. On  a  small,  black  oak  table  at  Rosamund's  elbow  two 


ECHO  121 

or  three  books  were  lying  beside  a  large  bowl  of  dim  blue  glass 
which  had  opalescent  lights  in  it.  This  bowl  was  nearly  full 
of  water  upon  which  a  water-lily  floated.  The  fire  on  the 
hearth  was  small,  but  glowing  with  red  and  gold.  Dark  cur- 
tains were  drawn  across  the  one  window  which  looked  out  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  It  was  a  frosty  night  and  windless. 

Dion  stood  still  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the  room 
after  he  had  opened  the  door. 

"  How  quiet  you  are  in  here !  "  he  said. 

"  This  little  room  is  always  quiet." 

"  Yes,  but  to-night  it's  like  a  room  to  which  some  one  has 
just  said' Hush! '; 

He  came  in  and  shut  the  door  quietly  behind  him. 

"  I've  just  a  minute." 

He  came  up  to  the  fire. 

"  And  so  you  were  looking  at  him,  our  Messenger  with 
winged  sandals.  Oh,  Rosamund,  how  wonderful  it  was  at 
Olympia!  I  wonder  whether  you  and  I  shall  ever  see  the 
Hermes  together  again.  I  suppose  all  the  chances  are  against 
it." 

"  I  hope  we  shall." 

"Do  you?  And  yet  —  I  don't  know.  It  would  be  terrible 
to  see  him  together  again  —  if  things  were  much  altered ;  if,  for 
instance,  one  was  less  happy  and  remembered " 

He  broke  off,  came  to  the  settee  at  right  angles  to  the  fire 
on  which  she  was  sitting,  and  sat  down  beside  her.  At  this 
moment  —  he  did  not  know  why  —  the  great  and  always  grow- 
ing love  he  had  for  her  seemed  to  surge  forward  abruptly  like  a 
tidal  wave,  and  he  was  conscious  of  sadness  and  almost  of  fear. 
He  looked  at  Rosamund  as  if  he  were  just  going  to  part  from 
her,  anxiously,  and  with  a  sort  of  greed  of  detail. 

"  Alone  I  could  never  go  back  to  Elis,"  he  said.  "  Never. 
What  a  power  things  have  if  they  are  connected  in  our  hearts 
with  people.  It's  —  it's  awful." 

A  clock  chimed  faintly. 

"  I  must  go." 

He  got  up  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  the  dear 
head  loved  so  much,  at  her  brow. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  he  said,  "  but  this  evening  I  hate 
leaving  you." 

"  But  it's  only  for  a  little  while." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 


122  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Ah!  here's  my  tray." 

The  maid  came  in  carrying  a  woman's  meal,  and  Dion's 
strange  moment  was  over. 

When  he  got  to  Great  Cumberland  Place,  Daventry,  who  was 
to  make  a  fourth,  had  just  arrived,  and  was  taking  off  his  coat 
in  the  hall.  He  looked  unusually  excited,  alert  in  an  almost 
feverish  way,  which  was  surprising  in  him. 

"  I'm  in  a  case,"  he  said,  "  a  quite  big  case.  Bruce  Evelin's 
got  it  for  me.  I'm  going  to  be  junior  to  Addington;  Lewis  & 
Lewis  instruct  me.  What  d'you  think  of  that?  " 

Dion  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"The  way  of K salvation !  " 

"Where  will  it  lead  me?" 

"To  Salvation,  of  course." 

"  I'll  walk  home  with  you  to-night,  old  Dion.  I  must  yap 
across  the  Park  with  you  to  Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  tell  you  all 
about  the  woman  from  Constantinople." 

They  were  going  upstairs. 

"The  woman ?  " 

"  My  client,  my  client.  My  dear  boy,  this  is  no  ordinary 
case  " —  he  waved  a  small  hand  ceremoniously  — "  it's  a  cause 
celebre  or  I  shouldn't  have  bothered  myself  with  it." 

Lurby  opened  the  drawing-room  door. 

"  How's  Rosamund?  "  was  Beatrice's  first  question  to  Dion, 
as  they  shook  hands. 

"  All  right.  I  left  her  just  going  to  feed  from  a  tray  in  her 
little  room." 

"  Rosamund  always  loved  having  a  meal  on  a  tray,"  said 
Bruce  Evelin.  "  She's  a  big  child  still.  But  enthusiasts  never 
really  grow  up,  luckily  for  them." 

"  Dinner  is  served,  sir." 

"  Daventry,  will  you  take  Beatrice  ?  " 

As  Dion  followed  with  Bruce  Evelin,  he  said: 

"  So  you've  got  Daventry  a  case!  " 

"  Yes." 

Bruce  Evelin  lowered  his  voice. 

"  He's  a  good  fellow  and  a  clever  fellow,  but  he's  got  to  work. 
He's  been  slacking  for  years." 

Dion  understood.  Bruce  Evelin  wished  Beatrice  to  marry 
Daventry. 

"  He  respects  you  tremendously,  sir.  If  any  one  can  make 
him  work,  you  can." 

"  I'm    going    to,"    returned    Bruce    Evelin.    with    his    quiet 


ECHO  123 

force.  "  He's  got  remarkable  ability,  and  the  slacker  — 
well " 

He  looked  at  Dion  with  his  dark,  informed  eyes,  in  which 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  men  always  seemed  sitting. 

"  I  can  bear  with  bad  energy  almost  more  easily  and  com- 
fortably than  with  slackness." 

During  dinner,  without  seeming  to,  Dion  observed  and  con- 
sidered Beatrice  and  Daventry,  imagining  them  wife  and  hus- 
band. He  felt  sure  Daventry  would  be  very  happy.  As  to 
Beatrice,  he  could  not  tell.  There  was  always  in  Beatrice's  at- 
mosphere, or  nearly  always,  a  faint  suggestion  of  sadness  which, 
curiously,  was  not  disagreeable  but  attractive.  Dion  doubted 
whether  Daventry  could  banish  it.  Perhaps  no  one  could,  and 
Daventry  had,  perhaps,  that  love  which  does  not  wish  to  alter, 
which  says,  "  I  love  you  with  your  little  bit  of  sadness  — 
keep  it." 

Daventry  was  exceptionally  animated  at  dinner.  The  pros- 
pect of  actually  appearing  in  court  as  counsel  in  a  case  had 
evidently  worked  upon  him  like  a  powerful  tonic.  Always  able 
to  be  amusing  when  he  chose,  he  displayed  to-night  a  new  some- 
thing—  was  it  a  hint  of  personal  dignity?  —  which  Dion  had 
not  hitherto  found  in  him.  "  Dear  old  Daventry,"  the  agree- 
able, and  obviously  clever,  nobody,  who  was  a  sure  critic  of 
others,  and  never  did  anything  himself,  who  blinked  at  mo- 
ments with  a  certain  feebleness,  and  was  too  fond  of  the  cozy 
fireside,  or  the  deep  arm-chairs  of  his  club,  had  evidently  caught 
hold  of  the  flying  skirts  of  his  self-respect,  and  was  thoroughly 
enjoying  his  capture.  He  did  not  talk  very  much  to  Beatrice, 
but  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  at  every  moment  enjoying  her 
presence,  her  attention;  when  she  listened  earnestly  he  caught 
her  earnestness  and  it  seemed  to  help  him;  when  she  laughed, 
in  her  characteristic  delicate  way,~-  her  laugh  seemed  almost 
wholly  of  the  mind, —  he  beamed  with  a  joy  that  was  touch- 
ing in  a  man  of  his  type  because  it  was  so  unself-conscious. 
His  affection  for  Beatrice  had  performed  the  miracle  of  draw- 
ing him  out  of  the  prison  of  awareness  in  which  such  men  as 
he  dwell.  To-night  he  was  actually  unobservant.  Dion  knew 
this  by  the  changed  expression  of  his  eyes.  Even  Beatrice  he 
was  not  observing;  he  was  just  feeling  what  she  was,  how  she 
was.  For  once  he  had  passed  beyond  the  narrow  portals  and 
had  left  satire  far  behind  him. 

Vv'hen  Beatrice  got  up  to  go  to  the  drawing-room  he  opened 
the  door  for  her.  She  blushed  faintly  as  she  went  out.  When 


124  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  door  was  shut,  and  the  three  men  were  alone,  Bruce  Evelin 
said  to  Dion: 

"  Will  you  mind  if  Daventry  and  I  talk  a  little  shop  to- 
night?" 

"  Of  course  not.  But  would  you  rather  I  went  up  and  kept 
Beattie  company?  " 

"  No;  stay  till  you're  bored,  or  till  you  think  Beatrice  is 
bored.  Let  us  light  up." 

He  walked  slowly,  with  his  gently  precise  gait,  to  a  cigar  cabi- 
net, opened  it,  and  told  the  young  men  to  help  themselves. 

"  And  now  for  the  Clarke  case,"  he  said. 

"  Is  that  the  name  of  the  woman  from  Constantinople?  " 
asked  Dion. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Beadon  Clarke,"  said  Daventry.  "  But  she  hates 
the  Beadon  and  never  uses  it.  Beadon  Clarke's  trying  to  di- 
vorce her,  and  I'm  on  her  side.  She's  staying  with  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde.  Esme  Darlington,  who's  an  old  friend  of  hers,  thinks 
her  too  unconventional  for  a  diplomatist's  wife." 

Bruce  Evelin  had  lighted  his  cigar. 

"  We  mustn't  forget  that  our  friend  Darlington  has  always 
run  tame  rather  than  wild,"  he  remarked,  with  a  touch  of  dry 
satire.  "  And  now,  Daventry,  let  us  go  through  the  main  facts 
of  the  case,  without,  of  course,  telling  any  professional  secrets." 

And  he  began  to  outline  the  Clarke  case,  which  subsequently 
made  a  great  sensation  in  London. 

It  appeared  that  Mrs.  Clarke  had  come  first  to  him  in  her 
difficulty,  and  had  tried  hard  to  persuade  him  to  emerge  from 
his  retirement  and  to  lead  for  her  defense.  He  had  been  de- 
termined in  refusal,  and  had  advised  her  to  get  Sir  John  Ad- 
dington,  with  Daventry  as  junior.  This  she  had  done.  Now 
Bruce  Evelin  was  carefully  "  putting  up  "  Daventry  to  every 
move  in  the  great  game  which  was  soon  to  be  played  out,  a 
game  in  which  a  woman's  honor  and  future  were  at  stake. 
The  custody  of  a  much-loved  child  might  also  come  into  ques- 
tion. 

"  Suppose  Addington  is  suddenly  stricken  with  paralysis  in 
the  middle  of  the  case,  you  must  be  ready  to  carry  it  through 
triumphantly  alone,"  he  observed,  with  quietly  twinkling  eyes, 
to  Daventry. 

"  May  I  have  a  glass  of  your  oldest  brandy,  sir?  "  returned 
Daventry,  holding  on  to  the  dinner-table  with  both  hands. 

The  brandy  was  given  to  him  and  the  discussion  of  the  case 
continued.  By  degrees  Dion  found  himself  becoming  strongly 


ECHO  125 

interested  in  Mrs.  Clarke,  whose  name  came  up  constantly. 
She  was  evidently  a  talented  and  a  very  unusual  woman.  Per- 
haps the  latter  fact  partially  accounted  for  the  unusual  diffi- 
culties in  which  she  was  now  involved.  Her  husband,  Coun- 
cilor to  the  British  Embassy  at  Constantinople,  charged  her 
with  misconduct,  and  had  cited  two  co-respondents, —  Hadi 
Bey,  a  Turkish  officer,  and  Aristide  Dumeny,  a  French  diplo- 
mat,—  both  apparently  men  of  intellect  and  of  highly  culti- 
vated tastes,  and  both  slightly  younger  than  Mrs.  Clarke.  A 
curious  fact  in  the  case  was  that  Beadon  Clarke  was  deeply  in 
love  with  his  wife,  and  had  —  so  Dion  gathered  from  a  re- 
mark of  Bruce  Evelin's  —  probably  been  induced  to  take  action 
against  her  by  his  mother,  Lady  Ermyntrude  Clarke,  who  evi- 
dently disliked,  and  perhaps  honestly  disbelieved  in,  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law. There  was  one  child  of  the  marriage,  a  boy,  to 
whom  both  the  parents  were  deeply  attached.  The  elements  of 
tragedy  in  the  drama  were  accentuated  by  the  power  to  love  pos- 
sessed by  accuser  and  accused.  As  Dion  listened  to  the  discus- 
sion he  realized  what  a  driving  terror,  what  a  great  black  figure, 
almost  monstrous,  love  can  be  —  not  only  the  sunshine,  but  the 
abysmal  darkness  of  life. 

Presently,  in  a  pause,  while  Daventry  was  considering  some 
difficult  point,  Dion  remembered  that  Beatrice  was  sitting  up- 
stairs alone.  Her  complete  unselfishness  always  made  him  feel 
specially  chivalrous  towards  her.  Now  he  got  up. 

"  It's  tremendously  interesting,  but  I'm  going  upstairs  to 
Beattie,"  he  said. 

"  Ah,  how  subtle  of  you,  my  boy!  "  said  Bruce  Evelin. 

"Subtle!     Why?" 

"  I  was  just  coming  to  the  professional  secrets." 

Dion  smiled  and  went  off  to  Beattie.  He  found  her  work- 
ing quietly,  almost  dreamily,  on  one  of  those  fairy  garments 
such  as  he  had  seen  growing  towards  its  minute  full  size  in  the 
serene  hands  of  his  Rosamund. 

"You  too!"  he  said,  looking  down  at  the  filmy  white. 
"  How  good  you  are  to  us,  Beattie !  " 

He  sat  down. 

"  What's  this  in  your  lap?  " 

The  filmy  white  had  been  lifted  in  the  process  of  sewing, 
and  a  little  exquisitely  bound  white  book  was  disclosed  be- 
neath it. 

"May  I  look?" 

"  Yes,  do." 


126  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Dion  took  the  book  up,  and  read  the  title,  "  The  Kasidah  of 
Haji  Abdu  El-Yezdi." 

"  I  never  heard  of  this.     Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"  Guy  Daventry  left  it  here  by  mistake  yesterday.  I  must 
give  it  to  him  to-night." 

Dion  opened  the  book,  and  saw  on  the  title  page:  "  Cynthia 
Clarke,  Constantinople,  October  1896,"  written  in  a  curiously 
powerful,  very  upright  caligraphy. 

"  It  doesn't  belong  to  Guy." 

"  No;  it  was  lent  to  him  by  his  client,  Mrs.  Clarke." 

Dion  turned  some  of  the  leaves  of  the  book,  began  to  read  and 
was  immediately  absorbed. 

"  By  Jove,  it's  wonderful,  it's  simply  splendid !  "  he  said  in 
a  moment.  "  Just  listen  to  this: 

"  Truu  to  tl-y  nature,  to  thyself, 

I-'ai.  <:  ?iul  disfame  nor  hope,  nor  fear; 
Enougii  to  thee  the  still  small  voice 
Aye  thundering  in  thine  inner  ear. 

From  self-approval  seek  applause: 

What  ken  not  men  thou  kennest  thou! 

Spurn  every  idol  others  raise : 
Before  thine  own  ideal  bow." 

He  met  the  dark  eyes  of  Beatrice. 

"  You  care  for  that?" 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  she  answered,  in  her  soft  and  delicate 
voice. 

"  Beattie,  I  believe  you  live  by  that,"  he  said,  almost 
bruskly. 

Suddenly  he  felt  aware  of  a  peculiar  sort  of  strength  in  her, 
in  her  softness,  a  strength  not  at  all  as  of  iron,  mysterious  and 
tenacious. 

"  Dear  old  Beattie!  "  he  said. 

Moisture  had  sprung  into  his  eyes. 

"  How  lonely  our  lives  are,"  he  continued,  looking  at  her 
now  with  a  sort  of  deep  curiosity.  "  The  lives  of  all  of  us. 
I  don't  care  who  it  is,  man,  woman,  child,  he  or  she,  every  one's 
lonely.  And  yet " 

A  doubt  had  surely  struck  him.  He  sat  very  still  for  9- 
minute. 

"  When  I  think  of  Rosamund  I  can't  think  of  her  as  lonely." 

"Can't  you?" 


ECHO  127 

"  No.  Somehow  it  seems  as  if  she  always  had  a  companion 
with  her." 

He  turned  a  few  more  pages  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  book,  glancing 
here  and  there. 

"  Rosamund  would  hate  this  book,"  he  said  presently.  "  It 
seems  thoroughly  anti-Christian.  But  it's  very  wonderful." 

He  put  the  book  down. 

"  Dear  Beattie!     Guy  cares  very  much  for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  great  simplicity. 

"  If  he  comes  well  out  of  this  case,  and  feels  he's  on  the  road 
to  success,  he'll  be  another  man.  He'll  dare  as  a  man  ought 
to  dare." 

She  went  on  sewing  the  little  garment  for  Dion's  child. 

"  I'll  walk  across  the  Park  with  you,  old  Dion,"  said  Daven- 
try  that  night,  as  they  left  the  house  in  Great  Cumberland 
Place,  "  whether  you're  going  to  walk  home  or  whether  you're 
not,  whether  you're  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  your 
Rosamund,  or  whether  you're  in  a  mood  for  friendship.  What 
time  is  it,  by  the  way?  " 

He  was  wrapped  in  a  voluminous  blue  overcoat,  with  a  wide 
collar,  immense  lapels,  and  apparently  only  one  button,  and 
that  button  so  minute  that  it  was  scarcely  visible  to  the  naked 
eye.  From  somewhere  he  extracted  a  small,  abnormally  thin 
watch  with  a  gold  face. 

"  Only  twenty  minutes  to  eleven.     We  dined  early." 

"  You  really  wish  to  walk?  " 

"  I  not  only  wish,  I  will  walk." 

The  still  glory  of  frost  had  surely  fascinated  London,  had 
subdued  the  rumbling  and  'uneasy  black  monster;  it  seemed 
to  Dion  unusually  quiet,  almost  like  something  in  ecstasy  un- 
der the  glittering  stars  of  frost,  which  shone  in  a  sky  swept 
clear  of  clouds  by  the  hand  of  the  lingering  winter.  It  was 
the  last  night  of  February,  but  it  looked,  and  felt,  like  a  night 
dedicated  to  the  Christ  Child,  to  Him  who  lay  on  the  breast 
of  Mary  with  cattle  breathing  above  Him.  As  Dion  gazed  up 
at  the  withdrawn  and  yet  almost  piercing  radiance  of  the  won- 
derful sky,  instinctively  he  thought  of  the  watching  shepherds, 
and  of  the  coming  of  that  Child  who  stands  forever  apart  from 
all  the  other  children  born  of  women  into  this  world.  He  wished 
Rosamund  were  with  him  to  see  the  stars,  and  the  frost  glisten- 
ing white  on  the  great  stretches  of  grass,  and  the  naked  trees  in 
the  mysterious  and  romantic  Park. 


128  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Shall  we  take  the  right-hand  path  and  walk  round  the  Ser- 
pentine? "  said  Daventry  presently. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  mind.  Rosamund  will  be  asleep,  I  think. 
She  goes  to  bed  early  now." 

"When  will  it  be?" 

"  Very  soon,  I  suppose;  perhaps  in  ten  days  or  so." 

Daventry  was  silent.  He  wanted  and  meant  to  talk  about 
his  own  affairs,  but  he  hesitated  to  begin.  Something  in  the 
night  was  making  him  feel  very  small  and  very  great.  Dion 
gave  him  a  lead  by  saying: 

"  D'you  mind  my  asking  you  something  about  the  Clarke 
case?  " 

"  Anything  you  like.     I'll  answer  if  I  may." 

"  Do  you  believe  Mrs.  Clarke  to  be  guilty  or  innocent?  " 

"  Oh,  innocent!  "  exclaimed  Daventry,  with  unusual  warmth. 

"  And  does  Bruce  Evelin?  " 

"  I  believe  so.     I  assume  so." 

"  I  noticed  that,  while  I  was  listening  to  you  both,  he  never 
expressed  any  opinion,  or  gave  any  hint  of  what  his  opinion 
was  on  the  point." 

"  I  feel  sure  he  thinks  her  innocent,"  said  Daventry,  still 
almost  with  heat.  "  Not  that  it  much  matters,"  he  added,  in 
a  less  prejudiced  voice.  "  The  point  is,  we  must  prove  her  to 
be  innocent  whether  she  is  or  not.  I  happen  to  feel  positive 
she  is.  She  isn't  the  least  the  siren  type  of  woman,  though  men 
like  her." 

"What  type  is  she?" 

"The  intellectual  type.  Not  a  blue-stocking!  God  for- 
bid! I  couldn't  defend  a  blue-stocking.  But  she's  a  woman 
full  of  taste,  who  cares  immensely  for  fine  and  beautiful  things, 
for  things  that  appeal  to  the  eye  and  the  mind.  In  that  way, 
perhaps,  she's  almost  a  sensualist.  But,  in  any  other  way! 
I  want  you  to  know  her.  She's  a  very  very  interesting  woman. 
Esme  Darlington  says  her  perceptions  are  exquisite.  Mrs. 
Chetwinde's  backing  her  up  for  all  she's  worth." 

"  Then  she  believes  her  to  be  innocent  too,  of  course." 

"  Of  course.  Come  with  me  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  next  Sun- 
day afternoon.  She'll  be  there." 

"  On  a  night  like  this,  doesn't  a  divorce  case  seem  prepos- 
terous? " 

"Well,  you  have  the  tongue  of  the  flatterer!  " — he  looked 
up — "  But  perhaps  it  does,  even  when  it's  Mrs.  Clarke's." 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  Mrs.  Clarke?  " 


ECHO  129 

"  Deeply,  because  she's  my  first  client  in  a  cause  cele- 
bre." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  her  book  again?  " 

"Her  book?     'The  Kasidah'?     I've  got  it  here." 

He  tapped  the  capacious  side  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"  You  saw  it  then?  "  he  added. 

"  Beattie  had  it  when  I  went  upstairs." 

"  I  wonder  what  she  made  of  it,"  Daventry  said,  with  soft- 
ness in  his  voice.  "  Don't  ever  let  Rosamund  see  it,  by  the 
way.  It's  anything  rather  than  Christian.  Mrs.  Clarke  gets 
hold  of  everything,  dives  into  everything.  She's  got  an  unrest- 
ing mind." 

They  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  Serpentine,  on  which  there 
lay  an  ethereal  film  of  baby  ice  almost  like  frosted  gauze. 
The  leafless  trees,  with  their  decoration  of  filigree,  suggested 
the  North  and  its  peculiar  romance  —  nature  trailing  away  into 
the  mighty  white  solitudes  where  the  Pole  star  reigns  over  fields 
of  ice. 

"  Hyde  Park  is  bringing  me  illusions  to-night,"  said  Daven- 
try. "  That  water  might  be  the  Vistula.  If  I  heard  a  wolf 
howling  over  there  near  the  ranger's  lodge,  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised." 

A  lifeguardsman,  in  a  red  cloak,  and  a  woman  drifted  away 
over  the  frost  among  the  trees. 

"  I  love  Mrs.  Clarke  as  a  client,  but  perhaps  I  love  her  even 
more  because,  through  her,  I  hope  to  get  hold  of  something  I've 
—  I've  let  drop,"  continued  Daventry. 

"What's  that?" 

Daventry  put  his  arm  through  Dion's. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  name  it  even  to  you;  but  it's 
something  a  man  of  great  intelligence,  such  as  myself,  should 
always  keep  in  his  fist." 

He  paused. 

"  The  clergy  are  apt  to  call  it  self-respect,"  he  at  length  added, 
in  a  dry  voice. 

Dion  pressed  his  arm. 

"  Bruce  Evelin  wants  you  to  marry  Beatrice." 

"He  hasn't  told  you  so?  " 

"  No,  except  by  taking  the  trouble  to  force  you  to  work." 

Daventry  stood  still. 

"  I'm  going  to  ask  her  —  almost  directly." 

"  Come  on,  Guy,  or  we  shall  have  all  the  blackbirds  round 
us.  Look  over  there." 


130  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Not  far  off,  among  the  trees,  two  slinking  and  sinister  shadows 
of  men  seemed  to  be  intent  upon  them. 

"  Isn't  it  incredible  to  practise  the  profession  of  a  black- 
mailer out  of  doors  on  a  night  like  this?  "  said  Dion.  "  D'you 
remember  when  we  were  in  the  night  train  coming  from  Bur- 
stal?  You  had  a  feather  that  night." 

"  Damn  it!     Why  rake  up  - 

"  And  I  said  how  wonderful  it  would  be  if  some  day  I  were 
married  to  Rosamund." 

"  Is  it  wonderful?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Very  wonderful?" 

"  Yes." 

"Children  too!" 

Daventry  sighed. 

"  One  wants  to  be  worthy  of  it  all,"  he  murmured.  "  And 
then  " —  he  laughed,  as  if  calling  in  his  humor  to  save  him  from 
something  — "  the  children,  in  their  turn,  feel  they  would  like 
to  live  up  to  papa.  Dion,  people  can  be  caught  in  the  net  of 
goodness  very  much  as  they  can  be  caught  in  the  net  of  evil. 
Let  us  praise  the  stars  for  that." 

They  arrived  at  the  bridge.  The  wide  road,  which  looked 
to-night  extraordinarily  clean,  almost  as  if  it  had  been  pol- 
ished up  for  the  passing  of  some  delicate  procession  in  the 
night,  was  empty.  There  were  no  vehicles  going  by;  the  night- 
birds  kept  among  the  trees.  The  quarter  after  eleven  chimed 
from  some  distant  church.  Dion  thought  of  Rosamund,  as 
he  paused  on  the  bridge,  thought  of  himself  as  a  husband  yield- 
ing his  wife  up  to  the  solitude  she  evidently  desired.  He  took 
Daventry  for  his  companion ;  she  had  the  child  for  hers.  There 
was  suffering  of  a  kind  even  in  a  very  perfect  marriage,  but 
what  he  had  told  Daventry  was  true;  it  had  been  very  won- 
derful. He  had  learnt  a  great  deal  in  his  marriage,  dear  les- 
sons of  high-mindedness  in  desire,  of  purity  in  possession.  If 
Rosamund  were  to  be  cut  off  from  him  even  to-night  he  had 
gained  enormously  by  the  possession  of  her.  He  knew  what 
woman  can  be,  and  without  disappointment;  for  he  did  not 
choose  to  reckon  up  those  small,  almost  impalpable  things 
which,  like  passing  shadows,  had  now  and  then  brought  a  faint 
obscurity  into  his  life  with  Rosamund,  as  disappointments. 
They  came,  perhaps,  from  himself.  And  what  were  they?  He 
looked  out  over  the  long  stretch  of  unruffled  water,  filmed  over 
with  ice  near  the  shores,  and  saw  a  tiny  dark  object  traveling 


ECHO  131 

through  it  with  self-possession  and  an  air  of  purpose  beneath 
the  constellations;  some  aquatic  bird  up  to  something,  heedless 
of  the  approaching  midnight  and  the  Great  Bear. 

"Look  at  that  little  beggar!"  said  Daventry.  "And  we 
don't  know  so  very  much  more  about  it  all  than  he  does.  I  ex- 
pect he's  a  Muscovy  duck,  or  drake,  if  you're  a  pedant  about 
genders." 

"  He's  evidently  full  of  purpose." 

"  Out  in  the  middle  of  the  ice-cold  Serpentine.  He's  only  a 
speck  now,  like  our  world  in  space.  Now  I  can't  see  him." 

"  I  can." 

"  You're  longer-sighted  than  I  am.  But,  Dion,  I'm  seeing 
a  longish  way  to-night,  farther  than  I've  seen  before.  Love's 
a  great  business,  the  greatest  business  in  life.  Ambition,  and 
greed,  and  vanity,  and  altruism,  and  even  fanaticism,  must  give 
place  when  it's  on  hand,  when  it  harnesses  its  winged  horses  to 
a  man's  car  and  swings  him  away  to  the  stars." 

"  Ask  her.     I  think  she'll  have  you." 

A  star  fell  through  the  frosty  clear  sky.  Dion  remembered 
the  falling  star  above  Drouva.  This  time  he  was  swift  with  a 
wish,  but  it  was  not  a  wish  for  his  friend. 

They  reached  Hyde  Park  Corner  just  before  midnight  and 
parted  there.  Dion  hailed  a  hansom,  but  Daventry  declared 
with  determination  that  he  was  going  to  walk  all  the  way  home 
to  Phillimore  Gardens. 

"  To  get  up  my  case,  to  arrange  things  mentally,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  Big  brains  always  work  best  at  night.  All  the 
great  lawyers  toil  when  the  stars  are  out.  Why  should  I  be  an 
exception?  I  dedicate  myself  to  Cynthia  Clarke.  She  will 
have  my  undivided  attention  and  all  my  deepest  solicitude." 

"  I  know  why." 

"  Xo,  no." 

He  put  one  hand  on  the  apron  which  Dion  had  already 
closed. 

"  No,  really,  you're  wrong.  I  am  deeply  interested  in  Mrs. 
Clarke  because  she  is  what  she  is.  I  want  her  to  win  because 
I'm  convinced  she's  innocent.  Will  you  come  to  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde's  next  Sunday  and  meet  her?  " 

"  Yes,  unless  Rosamund  wants  me." 

"  That's  always  understood." 

The  cab  drove  away,  and  the  great  lawyer  was  left  to  think 
of  his  case  under  the  stars. 

When  the  cab  turned  the  corner  of  Great  Market  Street,  West- 


132  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

minster,  and  came  into  Little  Market  Street,  Dion  saw  in  the 
distance  before  him  two  large,  staring  yellow  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  be  steadily  regarding  him  like  the  eyes  of  something  on  the 
watch.  They  were  the  lamps  of  a  brougham  drawn  up  in  front 
of  No.  5.  Dion's  cabman,  perforce,  pulled  up  short  before  the 
brown  door  of  No.  4. 

"A  carriage  in  front  of  my  house  at  this  time  of  night!  " 
thought  Dion,  as  he  got  out  and  paid  the  man. 

He  looked  at  the  coachman  and  at  the  solemn  brown  horse 
between  the  shafts,  and  instantly  realized  that  this  was  the  car- 
riage of  a  doctor. 

"Rosamund!" 

With  a  thrill  of  anxiety,  a  clutch  at  his  heart,  he  thrust  his 
latchkey  into  the  door.  It  stuck;  he  could  not  turn  it.  This 
had  never  happened  before.  He  tried,  with  force,  to  pull  the 
key  out.  It  would  not  move.  He  shook  it.  The  doctor's 
coachman,  he  felt,  was  staring  at  him  from  the  box  of  the 
brougham.  As  he  struggled  impotently  with  the  key  his  shoul- 
ders began  to  tingle,  and  a  wave  of  acute  irritation  flooded  him. 
He  turned  sharply  round  and  met  the  coachman's  eyes,  shrewd, 
observant,  lit,  he  thought,  by  a  flickering  of  sarcasm. 

"Has  the  doctor  been  here  long?  "  said  Dion. 

"  Sir?  " 

"  This  is  a  doctor's  carriage,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.     Doctor  Mayson." 

"Well,  I  say,  has  he  been  here  long?" 

"  About  an  hour,  sir,  or  a  little  more." 

"  Thanks." 

Dion  turned  again  and  assaulted  the  latchkey. 

But  he  had  to  ring  the  bell  to  get  in.  When  the  maid  came, 
looking  excited,  he  said: 

"  I  don't  know  what  on  earth's  the  matter  with  this  key.  I 
can't  either  turn  it  or  get  it  out." 

"No,  sir?" 

The  girl  put  her  hand  to  the  key,  and  without  any  difficulty 
drew  it  out  of  the  door. 

"I  don't  know  — I  couldn't!  " 

The  girl  shut  the  door. 

"What's  the  matter?  Why's  the  doctor  here?  It 
isn't ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  sort  of  intensely  feminine 
significance.  "  It  came  on  quite  sudden." 


ECHO  133 

"How  long  ago?  " 

"  A  good  while,  sir.     I  couldn't  say  exactly." 

"  But  why  wasn't  I  sent  for  ?  " 

*  My  mistress  wouldn't  have  you  sent  for,  sir.  Besides,  we 
were  expecting  you  every  moment." 

"  Ah !  and  I  —  and  now  it's  past  midnight." 

He  had  quickly  taken  off  his  coat,  hat  and  gloves.  Now  he 
ran  up  the  shallow  steps  of  the  staircase.  There  was  a  sort 
of  tumult  within  him.  He  felt  angry,  he  did  not  know  why. 
His  whole  body  was  longing  to  do  something  strong,  eager, 
even  violent  He  hated  his  latchkey,  he  hated  the  long  stroll 
in  Hyde  Park,  the  absurd  delay  upon  the  bridge,  his  preoccu- 
pation with  the  Muscovy  duck,  or  whatever  bird  it  was,  voy- 
aging over  the  Serpentine.  Why  had  nothing  told  him  not  to 
lose  a  moment  but  to  hurry  home?  He  remembered  that  he 
had  been  specially  reluctant  to  leave  Rosamund  that  evening, 
that  he  had  even  said  to  her,  "  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  this 
evening  I  hate  to  leave  you."  Perhaps,  then,  he  had  been 
warned,  but  he  had  not  comprehended  the  warning.  As  he  had 
looked  at  the  stars  he  had  thought  of  the  coming  of  the  most 
wonderful  Child  who  had  ever  visited  this  earth.  Perhaps  then, 
too He  tried  to  snap  off  his  thought,  half  confusedly  ac- 
cusing himself  of  some  sort  of  blasphemy.  At  the  top  of  the 
staircase  he  turned  and  looked  down  into  the  hall. 

"The  nurse?" 

"Sir?" 

"  Have  you  managed  to  get  the  nurse?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  she's  been  here  some  time." 

At  this  moment  Doctor  Mayson  opened  the  door  of  Rosa- 
mund's room  and  came  out  upon  the  landing  —  a  tall,  rosy 
and  rather  intellectual-looking  man,  with  tranquil  gray  eyes, 
and  hair  thinning  above  the  high,  knobby  forehead.  Dion  had 
never  seen  him  before.  They  shook  hands. 

"  I  shouldn't  go  into  your  wife's  room,"  said  Doctor  Mayson 
in  a  low  bass  voice. 

"  Why?     Doesn't  she  wish  it?  " 

"  She  wished  you  very  much  to  be  in  the  house." 

"  Then  why  not  send  for  me?  " 

"  She  was  against  it,  I  understand.  And  she  doesn't  wish 
any  one  to  be  with  her  just  now  except  the  nurse  and  myself." 

"  When  do  you  expect  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Some  time  during  the  night.     It's  evidently  going  to  be  an 


134  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

easy  confinement.  I'm  just  going  down  to  send  away  my  car- 
riage. It's  no  use  keeping  the  horse  standing  half  the  night  in 
this  frost.  I'm  very  fond  of  horses." 

"  Fond  of  horses  —  are  you  ?  "  said  Dion,  rather  vacantly. 

"Yes.     Are  you?" 

The  low  bass  voice  almost  snapped  out  the  question. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  Why  not?  They're  useful  animals.  I'll 
come  down  with  you  if  I'm  not  to  go  into  my  wife's  room." 

He  followed  the  doctor  down  the  stairs  he  had  just  mounted 
When  the  carriage  had  been  sent  away,  he  asked  Doctor  May- 
son  to  come  into  his  den  for  a  moment.  The  pains  of  labor 
had  come  on  unexpectedly,  but  were  not  exceptionally  severe; 
everything  pointed  to  an  easy  confinement. 

"  Your  wife  is  one  of  the  strongest  and  healthiest  women  I 
have  ever  attended,"  Doctor  Mayson  added;  "superb  health. 
It's  a  pleasure  to  see  any  one  like  that.  I  look  after  so  many 
neurotic  women  in  London.  They  give  themselves  up  for  lost 
when  they  are  confronted  with  a  perfectly  natural  crisis.  Mrs. 
Leith  is  all  courage  and  self-possession." 

"  But  then  why  shouldn't  I  see  her?  " 

"  Well,  she  seems  to  have  an  extraordinary  sense  of  duty  to- 
wards the  child  that's  coming.  She  thinks  you  might  be  less 
calm  than  she  is." 

"  But  I'm  perfectly  calm." 

Doctor  Mayson  smiled. 

"  D'you  know,  it's  really  ever  so  much  better  for  us  men  to 
keep  right  out  of  the  way  in  such  moments  as  these.  It's  the 
kindest  thing  we  can  do." 

"  Very  well.     I'll  do  it  of  course." 

"  I  never  go  near  my  own  wife  when  she's  like  this." 

Dion  stared  into  the  fire. 

"  Have  you  many  children?  " 

"  Eleven,"  remarked  the  bass  voice  comfortably.  "  But  I 
married  very  young,  before  I  left  Guy's.  Now  I'll  go  up  again. 
You  needn't  be  the  least  alarmed." 

"  I'm  not,"  said  Dion  bruskly. 

"Capital!" 

And  Doctor  Mayson  went  off,  not  treading  with  any  precau- 
tion. It  was  quite  obvious  that  his  belief  in  his  patient  was 
genuine. 

Eleven  children!  Well,  some  people  were  prepared  to  take 
any  risks  and  to  face  any  responsibilities.  Was  it  very  absurd 
to  find  in  the  coming  of  one  child  a  tremendous  event  ?  Really, 


ECHO  13^ 

Doctor  Mayson  had  almost  succeeded  in  making  Dion  feel  a 
great  fool.  Just  another  child  in  the  world  —  crying,  dribbling> 
feebly  trying  to  grasp  the  atmosphere;  another  child  to  cut  its 
first  tooth,  with  shrieks,  to  have  whooping-cough,  chicken-pox, 
rose  rash  and  measles;  another  child  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  the 
tree;  another  child  to  combat  and  love  and  suffer  and  die.  No, 
damn  it,  the  matter  was  important.  Doctor  Mayson  and  his 
rosy  face  were  unmeaning.  He  might  have  eleven,  or  a  hun- 
dred and  eleven  children,  but  he  had  no  imagination. 

Dion  shut  himself  into  his  room,  sat  down  in  a  big  arm- 
chair, lit  his  pipe  and  thought  about  the  Clarke  case.  He  had 
just  told  Doctor  Mayson  a  white  lie.  He  was  determined  not 
to  think  about  his  Rosamund:  he  dared  not  do  that;  so  his 
mind  fastened  on  the  Clarke  case.  Almost  ferociously  he  flung 
himself  upon  it,  called  upon  the  unknown  Mrs.  Clarke,  the 
woman  whom  he  had  never  seen,  to  banish  from  him  his  Rosa- 
mund, to  interpose  between  her  and  him.  For  Rosamund  was 
inevitably  suffering,  and  if  he  thought  about  that  suffering  his 
deep  anxiety,  his  pity,  his  yearning  would  grow  till  they  were 
almost  unendurable,  might  even  lead  his  feet  to  the  room  up- 
stairs, the  room  forbidden  to  him  to-night.  So  he  called  to 
Mrs.  Clarke,  and  at  last,  obedient  to  his  insistent  demand,  she 
came  and  did  her  best  for  him,  came,  he  imagined,  from  Con- 
stantinople, to  keep  him  company  in  this  night  of  crisis. 

As  Daventry  had  described  her,  as  Bruce  Evelin  had,  with 
casual  allusions  and  suggestive  hints,  built  her  up  before  Dion 
in  the  talk  after  dinner  that  night,  so  she  was  now  in  the  little 
room:  a  woman  of  intellect  and  of  great  taste,  with  an  intense 
love  for,  and  fine  knowledge  of,  beautiful  things:  a  woman 
who  was  almost  a  sensualist  in  her  adoration  for  fine  and  rare 
things. 

"  I  detest  the  sensation  of  sinking  down  in  things!  " 

Who  had  said  that  once  with  energy  in  Dion's  hearing? 
Oh  —  Rosamund,  of  course!  But  she  must  not  be  admitted 
into  Dion's  life  in  these  hours  of  waiting.  Mrs.  Clarke  must 
be  allowed  to  reign.  She  had  come  (in  Dion's  imagination) 
all  the  way  from  the  city  of  wood  and  of  marble  beside  the  sea- 
way of  the  Golden  Horn,  a  serious,  intellectual  and  highly  cul- 
tivated woman,  whom  a  cruel  fate  —  Kismet  —  was  now  about 
to  present  to  the  world  as  a  horrible  woman.  Pale,  thin,  rather 
melancholy  she  was,  a  reader  of  many  books,  a  great  lover  of 
nature,  a  woman  who  cared  very  much  for  her  one  child.  Why 
should  Fate  play  such  a  woman  such  a  trick?  Perhaps  be- 


136  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

cause  she  was  very  unconventional,  and  it  is  unwise  for  the  bird 
which  sings  in  the  cage  of  diplomacy  to  sing  any  but  an 
ordinary  song. 

Daventry  had  dwelt  several  times  on  Mrs.  Clarke's  uncon- 
ventionality;  evidently  the  defense  meant  to  lay  stress  on  it. 

So  now  Dion  sat  with  a  pale,  thin,  unconventional  woman, 
and  she  told  him  about  the  life  at  Stamboul.  She  kne*.v,  of 
course,  that  he  had  hated  Constantinople.  He  allowed  her  ta 
know  that.  And  she  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  wonderful  city,  upon  which  Russia  breathes  from  the 
north,  and  which  catches,  too,  strange  airs  and  scents  and  mur- 
murs of  voices  from  distant  places  of  Asia.  What  does  the 
passing  tourist  of  a  Pera  hotel  know  about  the  great  city  of  the 
Turks?  Nothing  worth  knowing.  The  roar  of  the  voices  of 
the  Levant  deafens  his  ears;  the  glitter  of  the  shop  windows  in 
the  Grande  Rue  blinds  his  eyes.  He  knows  not  the  exquisite 
and  melancholy  charm,  full  of  nuances  and  of  the  most  fragile 
and  evanescent  subtleties,  which  Constantinople  holds  for  those 
who  know  her  and  love  her  well. 

The  defense  was  evidently  going  to  make  much  of  Mrs. 
Clarke's  passion  for  the  city  on  the  Bosporus.  Daventry  had 
alluded  to  it  more  than  once,  and  Bruce  Evelin  had  said,  "  Mrs. 
Clarke  has  always  had  an  extraordinary  feeling  for  places.  If 
her  husband  had  accused  her  of  a  liaison  with  Eyub,  or  of  an 
unholy  fancy  for  the  forest  of  Belgrad,  we  might  have  been  in  a 
serious  difficulty.  She  had,  I  know,  a  regular  romance  once 
with  the  Mosquee  Verte  at  Brusa." 

Evidently  she  was  a  woman  whom  ordinary  people  would  be 
likely  to  misunderstand.  Dion  sat  in  his  arm-chair  trying  to 
understand  her.  The  effort  would  help  him  to  forget,  or  to 
ignore  if  he  couldn't  forget,  what  was  going  on  upstairs  in  the 
little  house.  He  pulled  hard  at  his  pipe,  as  an  aid  to  his  mind ; 
he  sat  alone  for  a  long  while  with  Mrs.  Clarke.  Sometimes  he 
looked  across  the  Golden  Horn  from  a  bit  of  waste  ground  in 
Pera,  near  to  a  small  cemetery:  it  was  from  there,  towards  eve- 
ning, that  he  had  been  able  to  "  feel "  Stamboul,  to  feel  it  as 
an  unique  garden  city,  held  by  the  sea,  wooden  and  frail,  mar- 
ble and  enduring.  And  somewhere  in  the  great  and  mysterious 
city  Mrs.  Clarke  had  lived  and  been  adored  by  the  husband  who, 
apparently  still  adoring,  was  now  trying  to  get  rid  of  her. 

Sometimes  Dion  heard  voices  rising  from  the  crowded  har- 
bor of  the  Golden  Horn.  They  crept  up  out  of  the  mystery 
of  the  evening;  voices  from  the  caiques,  and  from  the  boats 


ECHO  137 

«f  the  fishermen,  and  from  the  big  sailing  vessels  which  ply 
to  the  harbors  of  the  East,  and  from  the  steamers  at  rest  near 
the  Galata  Bridge,  and  from  the  many  craft  of  all  descrip- 
tions strung  out  towards  the  cypress-crowned  hill  of  Eyub. 
And  Mrs.  Clarke,  standing  beside  him,  began  to  explain  to  him 
in  a  low  and  hoarse  voice  what  these  strange  cries  of  the  eve- 
ning meant. 

Daventry  had  mentioned  that  she  had  a  hoarse  voice. 

At  a  little  after  three  o'clock  Dion  sat  forward  abruptly  in 
his  chair  and  listened  intently.  He  fancied  he  had  heard  a 
faint  cry.  He  waited,  surrounded  by  silence,  enveloped  by  si- 
lence. There  was  a  low  drumming  in  his  ears.  Mrs.  Clarke 
had  escaped  like  a  phantom.  Stamboul,  with  its  mosques,  its 
fountains,  its  pigeons  and  its  plane  trees,  had  faded  away. 
The  voices  from  the  Golden  Horn  were  stilled.  The  drumming 
in  Dion's  ears  grew  louder.  He  stood  up.  He  felt  very  hot, 
and  a  vein  in  his  left  temple  was  beating  —  not  fluttering,  but 
beating  hard. 

He  heard,  this  time  really  heard,  a  cry  overhead,  and  then 
the  muffled  sound  of  some  one  moving  about;  and  he  went  to 
the  door,  opened  it  and  passed  out  into  the  hall.  He  did  not 
go  upstairs,  but  waited  in  the  hall  until  Doctor  Mayson  came 
down,  looking  as  rosy  and  serene  and  unconcerned  as  ever. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Leith,"  he  said,  "  you're  a  father.  I  congratulate 
you.  Your  wife  has  got  through  beautifully." 

"Yes?" 

"  By  the  way,  it's  a  boy." 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

Doctor  Mayson  looked  genuinely  surprised. 

"  Why  '  of  course  '  ?     I  don't  quite  understand." 

"  She  knew  it  was  going  to  be  a  boy." 

The  doctor  smiled  faintly. 

"  Women  often  have  strange  fancies  at  such  times.  I  meaa 
before  they  are  confined." 

"  But  you  see  she  was  right.     It  is  a  boy." 

"  Exactly,"  returned  the  doctor,  looking  at  his  nails. 

Dion  saw  the  star  falling  above  the  hill  of  Drouva. 

Did  the  Hermes  know? 


138  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


CHAPTER  III 

ON  the  following  Sunday  afternoon  Dion  was  able  to  ful- 
fil his  promise  to  Daventry.     Rosamund  and  the  baby 
were  "  doing  beautifully  ";  he  was  not  needed  at  home, 
so  he  set  out  with  Daventry,  who  came  to  fetch  him,  to  visit 
Mrs.  Willie  Chetwinde  in  Lowndes  Square. 

When  they  reached  the  house  Daventry  said: 

"  Now  for  Mrs.  Clarke.  She's  really  a  wonderful  woman, 
Dion,  and  she's  got  a  delicious  profile." 

"  Oh,  it's  that " 

"  No,  it  isn't." 

He  gently  pushed  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  bell. 

As  they  went  upstairs  they  heard  a  soft  hum  of  voices. 

"  Mrs.  Clarke's  got  heaps  of  people  on  her  side,"  whispered 
Daventry.  "  This  is  a  sort  of  rallying  ground  for  the  de- 
fense." 

"  Where's  her  child  ?     Here  ?  " 

"  No,  with  some  relations  till  the  trial's  over." 

The  butler  opened  the  door,  and  immediately  Dion's  eyes 
rested  on  Mrs.  Clarke,  who  happened  to  be  standing  very  near 
to  it  with  Esme  Darlington.  Directly  Dion  saw  her  he  knew 
at  whom  he  was  looking.  Something  —  he  could  not  have  said 
what  —  told  him. 

By  a  tall  pedestal  of  marble,  on  which  was  poised  a  marble 
statuette  of  Echo, —  not  that  Echo  who  babbled  to  Hera,  but 
she  who,  after  her  punishment,  fell  in  love  with  Narcissus, — 
he  saw  a  very  thin,  very  pale,  and  strangely  haggard-looking 
woman  of  perhaps  thirty-two  talking  to  Esme  Darlington.  At 
first  sight  she  did  not  seem  beautiful  to  Dion.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  radiant  physical  bloom  of  his  Rosamund.  This 
woman,  with  her  tenuity,  her  pallor,  her  haunted  cheeks  and 
temples,  her  large,  distressed  and  observant  eyes  —  dark  hazel 
in  color  under  brown  eyebrows  drawn  with  a  precise  straight- 
ness  till  they  neared  the  bridge  of  the  nose  and  there  turning 
abruptly  downwards,  her  thin  and  almost  white-lipped  mouth, 
her  cloudy  brown  hair  which  had  no  shine  or  sparkle,  her 
rather  narrow  and  pointed  chin,  suggested  to  him  unhealthi- 
ness,  a  human  being  perhaps  stricken  by  some  obscure  dis- 
ease which  had  drained  her  body  of  all  fresh  color,  and  robbed 
it  of  flesh,  had  caused  to  come  upon  her  something  strange, 


ECHO  139 

not  easily  to  be  defined,  which  almost  suggested  the  charnel- 
house. 

As  he  was  looking  at  her,  Mrs.  Clarke  turned  slightly  and 
glanced  up  at  the  statue  of  Echo,  and  immediately  Dion  real- 
ized that  she  had  beauty.  The  line  of  her  profile  was  wonder- 
fully delicate  and  refined,  almost  ethereal  in  its  perfection;  and 
the  shape  of  her  small  head  was  exquisite.  Her  head,  in- 
deed, looked  girlish.  Afterwards  he  knew  that  she  had  en- 
chanting hands  —  moving  purities  full  of  expressiveness  — 
and  slim  little  wrists.  Her  expression  was  serious,  almost  mel- 
ancholy, and  in  her  whole  personality,  shed  through  her,  there 
was  a  penetrating  refinement,  a  something  delicate,  wild  and 
feverish.  She  looked  very  sensitive  and  at  the  same  time  per- 
fectly self-possessed,  as  if,  perhaps,  she  dreaded  Fate  but  could 
never  be  afraid  of  a  fellow-creature.  He  thought: 

"  She's  like  Echo  after  her  punishment." 

On  his  way  to  greet  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  he  passed  by  her;  as 
he  did  so  she  looked  at  him,  and  he  saw  that  she  thoroughly  con- 
sidered him,  with  a  grave  swiftness  which  seemed  to  be  an  es- 
sential part  of  her  personality.  Then  she  spoke  to  Esme  Dar- 
lington. Dion  just  caught  the  sound  of  her  voice,  veiled,  husky, 
but  very  individual  and  very  attractive  —  a  voice  that  could 
never  sing,  but  that  could  make  of  speech  a  music  frail  and 
evanescent  as  a  nocturne  of  Debussy's. 

"  Daventry's  right,"  thought  Dion.  "  That  woman  is  surely 
innocent." 

Mrs.  Chetwinde,  who  was  as  haphazard,  as  apparently  ab- 
sent-minded and  as  shrewd  in  her  own  house  as  in  the  houses 
of  others,  greeted  Dion  with  a  vague  cordiality.  Her  hus- 
band, a  robust  and  very  definite  giant,  with  a  fan-shaped  beard, 
welcomed  him  largely. 

"  Never  appear  at  my  wife's  afternoons,  you  know,"  he  ob- 
served, in  a  fat  and  genial  voice.  "  But  to-day's  exceptional. 
Always  stick  to  an  innocent  woman  in  trouble." 

He  lowered  his  voice  in  speaking  the  last  sentence,  and 
looked  very  human.  And  immediately  Dion  was  aware  of  a 
special  and  peculiar  atmosphere  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  drawing- 
room  on  this  Sunday  afternoon,  of  something  poignant  almost, 
though  lightly  veiled  with  the  sparkling  gossamer  which  serves 
to  conceal  undue  angularities,  something  which  just  hinted  at 
tragedy  confronted  with  courage,  at  the  attempted  stab  and  the 
raised  shield  of  affection.  Here  Mrs.  Clarke  was  in  sanctu- 
ary. He  glanced  towards  her  again  with  a  deepening  interest 


i4o  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Canon  Wilton's  coming  in  presently,"  said  Mrs.  Chetwinde. 
"  He's  preaching  at  St.  Paul's  this  afternoon,  or  perhaps  it's 
Westminster  Abbey  —  something  of  that  kind." 

"  I've  heard  him  two  or  three  times,"  answered  Dion,  who 
was  on  very  good,  though  not  on  very  intimate,  terms  with  Canon 
Wilton.  "  I'd  rather  hear  him  than  anybody." 

"  In  the  pulpit  —  yes,  I  suppose  so.  I'm  scarcely  an  ama- 
teur of  sermons.  He's  a  volcano  of  sincerity,  and  never  sends 
out  ashes.  It's  all  red-hot  lava.  Have  you  met  Cynthia 
Clarke?" 

"  No." 

"  She's  over  there,  echoing  my  Echo.  Would  you 
like ?" 

"  Very  much  indeed." 

"Then  I'll " 

An  extremely  pale  man,  with  long,  alarmingly  straight  hair 
and  wandering  eyes  almost  the  color  of  silver,  said  something 
to  her. 

"  Watteau?  Oh,  no  — he  died  in  1721,  not  in  1722,"  she 
replied.  "  The  only  date  I  never  can  remember  is  William  the 
Conqueror.  But  of  course  you  couldn't  remember  about  Wat- 
teau. It's  distance  makes  memory.  You're  too  near." 

"  That's  the  fan  painter,  Murphy-Elphinston,  Watteau's 
reincarnation,"  she  added  to  Dion.  "  He's  always  asking  ques- 
tions about  himself.  Cynthia  —  this  is  Mr.  Dion  Leith.  He 
wishes "  She  drifted  away,  not,  however,  without  dex- 
terously managing  to  convey  Mr.  Darlington  with  her. 

Dion  found  himself  looting  into  the  large,  distressed  eyes 
of  Mrs.  Clarke.  Daventry  was  standing  close  to  her,  but,  v/ith 
a  glance  at  his  friend,  moved  away. 

"  I  should  like  to  sit  down,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  Here  are  two  chairs " 

"  No,  I'd  rather  sit  over  there  under  the  Delia  Robbia.  I 
can  see  Echo  from  there." 

She  walked  very  slowly  and  languidly,  as  if  tired,  to  a  large 
and  low  sofa  covered  with  red,  which  was  exactly  opposite  to 
the  statuette.  Dion  followed  her,  thinking  about  her  age.  He 
supposed  her  to  be  about  thirty-two  or  thirty-three,  possibly  a 
year  or  two  more  or  less.  She  was  very  simply  dressed  in  a 
gray  silk  gown  with  black  and  white  lines  in  it.  The  tight 
sleeves  of  it  were  unusually  long  and  ended  in  points.  They 
were  edged  with  some  transparent  white  material  which  rested 
against  her  small  hands. 


ECHO  141 

She  sat  down  and  he  sat  down  by  her,  and  they  began  to 
talk.  Unlike  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  Mrs.  Clarke  showed  that  she 
was  alertly  attending  to  all  that  was  said  to  her,  and,  when  she 
spoke,  she  looked  at  the  person  to  whom  she  was  speaking, 
looked  steadily  and  very  unself -consciously.  Dion  mentioned 
that  he  had  once  been  to  Constantinople. 

"Did  you  care  about  it?"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  rather 
earnestly. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  disliked  it,  although  I  found  it,  of  course, 
tremendously  interesting.  In  fact,  I  almost  hated  it." 

"  That's  only  because  you  stayed  in  Pera,"  she  answered, 
"  and  went  about  with  a  guide." 

"  But  how  do  you  know?  " — he  was  smiling. 

"  Well,  of  course  you  did." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  could  easily  make  you  love  it,"  she  continued,  in  an 
oddly  impersonal  way,  speaking  huskily. 

Dion  had  never  liked  huskiness  before,  but  he  liked  it  now. 

"  You  are  fond  of  it,  I  believe?  "  he  said. 

His  eyes  met  hers  with  a  great  deal  of  interest. 

He  considered  her  present  situation  an  interesting  one;  there 
was  drama  in  it;  there  was  the  prospect  of  a  big  fight,  of  great 
loss  or  great  gain,  destruction  or  vindication. 

In  her  soul  already  the  drama  was  being  played.  He 
imagined  her  soul  in  turmoil,  peopled  with  a  crowd  of  jostling 
desires  and  fears,  and  he  was  thinking  a  great  many  things 
about  her,  and  connected  with  her,  almost  simultaneously  — 
so  rapidly  a  flood  of  thoughts  seems  to  go  by  in  the  mind  — 
as  he  put  his  question. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  Stamboul  holds  me 
very  fast  in  its  curiously  inert  grip.  It's  a  grip  like  this." 

She  held  out  her  small  right  hand,  and  he  put  his  rather 
large  and  sinewy  brown  hand  into  it.  The  small  hand  folded 
itself  upon  his  in  a  curious  way  —  feeble  and  fierce  at  the  same 
time,  it  seemed  —  and  held  him.  The  hand  was  warm,  almost 
hot,  and  soft,  and  dry  as  a  fire  is  dry  —  so  dry  that  it  hisses 
angrily  if  water  is  thrown  on  it. 

"  Now,  you  are  trying  to  get  away,"  she  said.  "  And  of 
course  you  can,  but 

Dion  made  a  movement  as  if  to  pull  away  his  hand,  but 
Mrs.  Clarke  retained  it.  How  was  that?  He  scarcely  knew; 
in  fact  he  did  not  know.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  doing  any- 
thing definite  to  keep  him,  did  not  squeeze  or  grip  his  hand, 


142  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

or  cling  to  it;  but  his  hand  remained  in  hers  nevertheless. 

"  There,"  she  said,  letting  his  hand  go.  "  That  is  how 
Stamboul  holds.  Do  you  understand?  " 

Mrs.  Chetwinde's  vague  eyes  had  been  on  them  during  this 
little  episode.  Dion  had  had  time  to  see  that,  and  to  think, 
"  Now,  at  such  a  time,  no  one  but  an  absolutely  innocent  woman 
would  do  in  public  what  Mrs.  Clarke  is  doing  to  me."  Mrs. 
Chetwinde,  he  felt  sure,  full  of  all  worldly  knowledge,  must 
be  thinking  the  very  same  thing. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I  do.  But  I  wonder  whether 
it  could  hold  me  like  that." 

"  I  know  it  could." 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  know?  " 

"  Why  not?     Simply  by  my  observation  of  you." 

Dion  remembered  the  swift  grave  look  of  consideration  she 
had  given  to  him  as  he  came  into  the  room.  Something  almost 
combative  rose  up  in  him,  and  he  entered  into  an  argument 
with  her,  in  the  course  of  which  he  was  carried  away  into  the 
revelation  of  his  mental  comparison  between  Constantinople  and 
Greece,  a  comparison  into  which  entered  a  moral  significance. 
He  even  spoke  of  the  Christian  significance  of  the  Hermes  of 
Olympia.  Mrs.  Clarke  listened  to  him  with  a  very  still,  and 
apparently  a  very  deep,  attention. 

"  I've  been  in  Greece,"  she  said  simply,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  You  didn't  feel  at  all  as  I  did,  as  I  do?  " 

"  You  may  know  Greece,  but  you  don't  know  Stamboul," 
she  said  quietly. 

"  If  you  had  shown  it  to  me  I  might  feel  very  differently," 
Dion  said,  with  a  perhaps  slightly  banal  politeness. 

And  yet  he  did  not  feel  entirely  banal  as  he  said  it. 

"  Come  out  again  and  I  will  show  it  to  you,"  she  said. 

She  was  almost  staring  at  him,  at  his  chest  and  shoulders, 
not  at  his  face,  but  her  eyes  still  kept  their  unself-conscious 
and  almost  oddly  impersonal  look. 

"  You  are  going  back  there?  " 

"  Of  course,  when  my  case  is  over." 

Dion  felt  very  much  surprised.  He  knew  that  Mrs.  Clarke's 
husband  was  accredited  to  the  British  Embassy  at  Constan- 
tinople; that  the  scandal  about  her  was  connected  with  that 
city  and  with  its  neighborhood  —  Therapia,  Prinkipo,  and  other 
near  places;  that  both  the  co-respondents  named  in  the  suit 
lived  there.  Whichever  way  the  case  went,  surely  Constanti- 
nople must  be  very  disagreeable  to  Mrs.  Clarke  from  now 


ECHO  143 

onwards.  And  yet  she  was  going  back  there,  and  apparently 
intended  to  take  up  her  life  there  again.  She  evidently  either 
saw  or  divined  his  surprise,  for  she  added  in  the  husky  voice: 

"  Guilt  may  be  governed  by  circumstances.  I  suppose  it 
is  full  of  alarms.  But  I  think  an  innocent  woman  who  allows 
herself  to  be  driven  out  of  a  place  she  loves  by  a  false  accusa- 
tion is  merely  a  coward.  But  all  this  is  very  uninteresting  to 
you.  The  point  is,  I  shall  soon  be  settled  down  again  at  Con- 
stantinople, and  ready  to  make  you  see  it  as  it  really  is,  if  you 
ever  return  there." 

She  had  spoken  without  hardness  or  any  pugnacity;  there 
was  no  defiance  in  her  manner,  which  was  perfectly  simple 
and  straightforward. 

"  Your  moral  comparison  between  Constantinople  and 
Greece  —  it  isn't  fair,  by  the  way,  to  compare  a  city  with  a 
country  —  doesn't  interest  me  at  all.  People  can  be  disgusting 
anywhere.  Greece  is  no  better  than  Turkey.  It  has  a  wonder- 
fully delicate,  pure  atmosphere;  but  that  doesn't  influence  the 
morals  of  the  population.  Fine  Greek  art  is  the  purest  art 
in  the  world;  but  that  doesn't  mean  that  the  men  who  created 
it  had  only  pure  thoughts  or  lived  only  pure  lives.  I  never 
read  morals  into  art,  although  I'm  English,  and  it's  the  old 
hopeless  English  way  to  do  that.  The  man  who  made  Echo  " 
—  she  turned  her  large  eyes  towards  the  statuette  — "  may  have 
been  an  evil  liver.  In  fact,  I  believe  he  was.  But  Echo  is 
an  exquisite  pure  bit  of  art." 

Dion  thought  of  Rosamund's  words  about  Praxiteles  as  they 
sat  before  the  Hermes.  His  Rosamund  and  Mrs.  Clarke  were 
mentally  at  opposite  poles;  yet  they  were  both  good  women. 

"  My  friend  Daventry  would  agree  with  you,  I  know,"  he 
said. 

"  He's  a  clever  and  a  very  dear  little  man.  Who's  that 
coming  in?  " 

Dion  looked  and  saw  Canon  Wilton.  He  told  Mrs.  Clarke 
who  it  was.  , 

"  Enid  told  me  he  was  coming.     I  should  like  to  know  him." 

"Shall  I  go  and  tell  him  so?" 

"Presently.  How's  your  baby?  I'm  told  you've  got  a 
baby." 

Dion  actually  blushed.  Mrs.  Clarke  gazed  at  the  blush,  and 
no  doubt  thoroughly  understood  it,  but  she  did  not  smile,  or 
look  arch,  or  full  of  feminine  understanding. 

"  It's  very  well,  thank  you.     It's  just  like  other  babies." 


144  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  So  was  mine.  Babies  are  always  said  to  be  wonderful, 
and  never  are.  And  we  love  ours  chiefly  because  they  aren't. 
I  hate  things  with  wings  growing  out  of  their  shoulders.  My 
boy's  a  very  naughty  boy." 

They  talked  about  the  baby,  and  then  about  Mrs.  Clarke's 
son  of  ten;  and  then  Canon  Wilton  came  up,  shook  hands 
warmly  with  Dion,  and  was  introduced  by  Mrs.  Chetwinde 
to  Mrs.  Clarke. 

Presently,  from  the  other  side  of  the  room  where  he  was 
standing  with  Esme  Darlington,  Dion  saw  them  in  conversa- 
tion; saw  Mrs.  Clarke's  eyes  fixed  on  the  Canon's  almost 
fiercely  sincere  face. 

"  It's  going  to  be  an  abominable  case,"  murmured  Mr.  Darl- 
ington in  Dion's  ear.  "  We  must  all  stand  round  her." 

"  I  can't  imagine  how  any  one  could  think  such  a  woman 
guilty,"  said  Dion. 

"  It  has  all  come  about  through  her  unconventionally."  He 
pulled  his  beard  and  lifted  his  ragged  eyebrows.  "  It  really 
is  much  wiser  for  innocent  people,  such  as  Cynthia,  to  keep  a 
tight  hold  on  the  conventions.  They  have  their  uses.  They 
have  their  place  in  the  scheme.  But  she  never  could  see  it, 
and  look  at  the  result." 

"But  then  don't  you  think  she'll  win?" 

"  No  one  can  tell." 

"  In  any  case,  she  tells  me  she's  going  back  to  live  at  Con- 
stantinople." 

"Madness!  Sheer  madness!"  said  Mr.  Darlington,  almost 
piteously.  "  I  shall  beg  her  not  to." 

Dion  suppressed  a  smile.  That  day  he  had  gained  the  im- 
pression that  Mrs.  Clarke  had  a  will  of  iron. 

When  he  went  up  to  say  good-by  to  her,  Daventry  had 
already  gone;  he  said  he  had  work  to  do  on  the  case. 

"May  I  wish  you  success?"  Dion  ventured  to  say,  as  he 
took  her  hand. 

"'Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "  I  think  you  must  go  in  for 
athletic  exercises,  don't  you?  " 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  breadth  of  his  chest,  and  then 
traveled  to  his  strong,  broad  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  I'm  very  keen  on  them." 

"  I  want  my  boy  to  go  in  for  them.  It's  so  important  to 
be  healthy." 

"  Rather!  " 


ECHO  145 

He  felt  the  Stamboul  touch  in  her  soft,  hot  hand.  As  he 
let  it  go,  he  added: 

"  I  can  give  you  the  address  of  a  first-rate  instructor  if  your 
boy  ever  wants  to  be  physically  trained.  I  go  to  him.  His 
name's  Jenkins." 

"  Thank  you." 

She  was  still  looking  at  his  chest  and  shoulders.  The  ex- 
pression of  distress  in  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  deepening.  But 
a  tall  man,  Sir  John  Killigrew,  one  of  her  adherents,  spoke  to 
her,  and  she  turned  to  give  him  her  complete  attention. 

"  I'll  walk  with  you,  if  you're  going,"  said  Canon  Wilton's 
strong  voice  in  Dion's  ear. 

"  That's  splendid.     I'll  just  say  good-by  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde." 

He  found  her  by  the  tea-table  with  three  or  four  men  and 
two  very  smart  women.  As  he  came  up  one  of  the  latter  was 
saying : 

"  It's  all  Lady  Ermyntrude's  fault.  She  always  hated 
Cynthia,  and  she  has  a  heart  of  stone." 

The  case  again! 

"  Oh,  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Chetwinde. 

She  got  up  and  came  away  from  the  tea-table. 

"  D'you  like  Cynthia  Clarke?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  very  much.     She  interests  me." 

"Ah?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  seemed  about  to  say  something,  but 
did  not  speak. 

"  You  saw  her  take  my  hand,"  he  said,  moved  by  a  sudden 
impulse. 

"Did  she?" 

"  We  were  talking  about  Stamboul.  She  did  it  to  show 

me "  He  broke  off.  "  I  saw  you  felt,  as  I  did,  that  no 

one  but  a  through  and  through  innocent  woman  could  have 
done  it,  just  now  —  like  that,  I  mean." 

"  Of  course  Cynthia  is  innocent,"  Mrs.  Chetwinde  said, 
rather  coldly  and  very  firmly.  "  There's  Canon  Wilton  wait- 
ing for  you." 

She  turned  away,  but  did  not  go  back  to  the  tea-table;  as 
Dion  went  out  of  the  room  he  saw  her  sitting  down  on  the 
red  sofa  by  Mrs.  Clarke. 

Canon  Wilton  and  he  walked  slowly  away  from  the  house. 
The  Canon,  who  had  some  heart  trouble  of  which  he  never 
spoke,  was  not  allowed  to  walk  fast;  and  to-day  he  was  tired 


146  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

after  his  sermon  at  the  Abbey.  He  inquired  earnestly  about 
Rosamund  and  the  child,  and  seemed  made  happy  by  the  good 
news  Dion  was  able  to  give  him. 

"  Has  it  made  all  life  seem  very  different  to  you?  "  he  asked. 

Dion  acknowledged  that  it  had. 

"  I  was  half  frightened  at  the  thought  of  the  change  which 
was  coming,"  he  said.  "  We  were  so  very  happy  as  we  were, 
you  see/' 

The  Canon's  intense  gray  eyes  shot  a  glance  at  him,  which 
he  felt  rather  than  saw,  in  the  evening  twilight. 

"  I  hope  you'll  be  even  happier  now." 

"  It  will  be  a  different  sort  of  happiness  now." 

"  I  think  children  bind  people  together  more  often  than  not. 
There  are  cases  when  it's  not  so,  but  I  don't  think  yours  is 
likely  to  be  one  of  them." 

"  Oh  no." 

"  Is  it  a  good-looking  baby?  " 

"  No,  really  it's  not.  Even  Rosamund  thinks  that.  D'you 
know,  so  far  she's  marvel ously  reasonable  in  her  love." 

"  That's  splendid,"  said  Canon  Wilton,  with  a  strong  ring 
in  his  voice.  "  An  unreasonable  love  is  generally  a  love  with 
something  rotten  at  its  roots." 

Dion  stood  still. 

"  Oh,  is  that  true  really?  " 

The  Canon  paused  beside  him.  They  were  in  Eaton  Square, 
opposite  to  St.  Peter's. 

"  I  think  so.  But  I  hate  anything  that  approaches  what 
I  call  mania.  Religious  mania,  for  instance,  is  abhorrent  to 
me,  and,  I  should  think,  displeasing  to  God.  Any  mania  enter- 
ing into  a  love  clouds  that  purity  which  is  the  greatest  beauty 
of  love.  Mania  —  it's  detestable !  " 

He  spoke  almost  with  a  touch  of  heat,  and  put  his  hand  on 
Dion's  shoulder. 

"  Beware  of  it,  my  boy." 

"  Yes." 

They  walked  on,  talking  of  other  things.  A  few  minutes 
before  they  parted  they  spoke  of  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  Did  you  know  her  before  to-day?  "  asked  the  Canon. 

"  No.  I'd  never  even  seen  her.  How  dreadful  for  her  to 
have  to  face  such  a  case." 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  The  fact  that  she's  innocent  gives  her  a  great  pull,  though. 
I  realized  what  a  pull  when  I  was  having  a  talk  with  her." 


ECHO  147 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  case,"  was  all  that  the  Canon 
said.  "  I  hope  justice  will  be  done  in  it  when  it  conies  on." 

Dion  thought  that  there  was  something  rather  implacable 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Clarke  doubts  that." 

"  Did  she  say  so?  "  asked  Canon  Wilton. 

"  No.  But  I  felt  that  she  expected  to  win  —  almost  knew 
she  would  win." 

"  I  see.     She  has  confidence  in  the  result." 

"  She  seems  to  have." 

"  Women  often  have  more  confidence  in  difficult  moments 
than  we  men.  Well,  here  I  must  leave  you." 

He  held  out  his  big,  unwavering  hand  to  Dion. 

"  Good-by.  God  bless  you  both,  and  the  child,  whether 
it's  plain  or  not.  One  good  thing's  added  to  us  when  we  start 
rather  ill-favored;  the  chance  of  growing  into  something  well- 
favored." 

He  gripped  Dion's  hand  and  walked  slowly,  but  power- 
fully, away. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AS  Dion  had  said,  the  baby  was  an  ordinary  baby.  "  In 
looks,"  the  nurse  remarked,  "  he  favors  his  papa." 
Certainly  in  this  early  stage  of  his  career  the  baby 
had  little  of  the  beauty  and  charm  of  Rosamund.  As  his  head 
was  practically  bald,  his  forehead,  which  was  wrinkled  as  if 
by  experience  and  the  troubles  of  years,  looked  abnormally 
high.  His  face,  full  of  puckers,  was  rather  red;  his  nose 
meant  very  little  as  yet;  his  mouth,  with  perpetually  moving 
lips,  was  the  home  of  bubbles.  His  eyes  were  blue,  and  looked 
large  in  his  extremely  small  countenance,  which  was  often 
decorated  with  an  expression  of  mild  inquiry.  This  expres- 
sion, however,  sometimes  changed  abruptly  to  a  network  of 
wrath,  in  which  every  feature,  and  even  the  small  bald  head, 
became  involved.  Then  the  minute  feet  made  feeble  dabs,  or 
stabs,  at  the  atmosphere;  the  tiny  fists  doubled  themselves  and 
wandered  to  and  fro  as  if  in  search  of  the  enemy;  and  a  voice 
came  forth  out  of  the  temple,  very  personal  and  very  intense, 
to  express  the  tempest  of  the  soul. 


148  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Hark  at  him!  "  said  the  nurse.  "  He  knows  already  what 
he  wants  and  what  he  don't  want." 

And  Rosamund,  listening  as  only  a  mother  can  listen,  shook 
her  head  over  him,  trying  to  condemn  the  rage,  but  enjoying 
the  strength  of  her  child  in  the  way  of  mothers,  to  whom  the 
baby's  roar  perhaps  brings  the  thought,  "  What  a  fine,  bold 
man  he'll  be  some  day."  If  Rosamund  had  such  a  thought 
the  nurse  encouraged  it  with  her,  "  He's  got  a  proud  spirit 
already,  ma'am.  He's  not  to  be  put  upon.  Have  his  way  he 
will,  and  I  don't  altogether  blame  him."  Nor,  be  sure,  did 
Rosamund  altogether  blame  the  young  varmint  for  anything. 
Perhaps  in  his  tiny  fisticuffs  and  startlingly  fierce  cries  she 
divined  the  Doric,  in  embryo,  as  it  were;  perhaps  when  "  little 
master  "  shrieked  she  thought  of  the  columns  of  the  Parthe- 
non. 

But  Dion  had  told  the  truth  to  Canon  Wilton  when  he  had 
said  that  Rosamund  was  marvelously  reasonable,  so  far,  in  her 
love  for  her  baby  son.  The  admirable  sanity,  the  sheer  healthi- 
ness of  outlook  which  Dion  loved  in  her  did  not  desert  her  now. 
To  Dion  it  seemed  that  in  the  very  calmness  and  good  sense 
of  her  love  she  showed  its  great  depth,  showed  that  already  she 
was  thinking  of  her  child's  soul  as  well  as  of  his  little  body. 

Dion  felt  the  beginnings  of  a  change  in  Rosamund,  but  he 
did  not  find  either  her  or  himself  suddenly  and  radically 
changed  by  the  possession  of  a  baby.  He  had  thought  that 
perhaps  as  mother  and  father  they  would  both  feel  abruptly 
much  older  than  before,  even  perhaps  old.  It  was  not  so. 
Often  Dion  gazed  at  the  baby  as  he  bubbled  and  cooed,  sneezed 
with  an  air  of  angry  astonishment,  stared  at  nothing  with  a 
look  of  shallow  surmise,  or,  composing  his  puckers,  slept,  and 
Dion  still  felt  young,  even  very  young,  and  not  at  all  like  a 
father. 

"  I'm  sure,"  he  once  said  to  Rosamund,  "  women  feel  much 
more  like  mothers  when  they  have  a  baby  than  men  feel  like 
fathers." 

"  I  feel  like  a  mother  all  over,"  she  replied,  bending  above 
the  child.  "  In  every  least  little  bit  of  me." 

"  Then  do  you  feel  completely  changed?  " 

"  Completely,  utterly." 

Dion  sat  still  for  a  moment  gazing  at  her.  She  felt  his  look, 
perhaps,  for  she  lifted  her  head,  and  her  eyes  went  from  the 
baby  to  him. 

"What  is  it,  Rosamund?     What  are  you  considering?" 


ECHO  149 

"  Well "  She  hesitated.  "  Perhaps  no  one  could  quite 

understand,  but  I  feel  a  sense  of  release." 

"Release!     From  what?" 

Again  she  hesitated;  then  she  looked  once  more  at  the  child 
almost  as  if  she  wished  to  gain  something  from  his  helplessness. 
At  last  she  said: 

"  Dion,  as  you've  given  me  him,  I'll  tell  you.  Very  often 
in  the  past  I've  had  an  urgent  desire  some  day  to  enter  into 
the  religious  life." 

"  D'you  —  d'you  mean  to  become  a  Roman  Catholic  and  a 
nun?  "  he  exclaimed,  feeling,  absurdly  perhaps,  almost  afraid 
and  half  indignant. 

"  No.  I've  never  wished  to  change  my  religion.  There  are 
Anglican  sisterhoods,  you  know." 

"  But  your  singing!  " 

"  I  only  intended  to  sing  for  a  time.  Then  some  day,  when 
I  felt  quite  ready,  I  meant " 

"  But  you  married  me?  "  he  interrupted. 

"  Yes.     So  you  see  I  gave  it  all  up." 

"  But  you  said  it  was  the  child  which  had  brought  you  a 
sensation  of  release!  " 

"  Perhaps  you  have  never  been  a  prisoner  of  a  desire  which 
threatens  to  dominate  your  soul  forever,"  she  said,  quietly  evad- 
ing his  point  and  looking  down,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her 
eyes.  "  Look,  he's  waking!  " 

Surely  she  had  moved  abruptly  and  the  movement  had 
awakened  the  child.  She  began  playing  with  him,  and  the 
conversation  was  broken. 

The  Clarke  trial  came  on  in  May,  when  Robin  was  becoming 
almost  elderly,  having  already  passed  no  less  than  ten  weeks 
in  the  midst  of  this  wicked  world.  On  the  day  before  it 
opened,  Daventry  made  Dion  promise  to  come  into  court  at 
least  once  to  hear  some  of  the  evidence. 

"  A  true  friend  would  be  there  every  day,"  he  urged  — "  to 
back  up  his  old  chum." 

"  Business!  "  returned  Dion  laconically. 

"What's  your  real  reason  against  it?  " 

"  Well,  Rosamund  hates  this  kind  of  case.  I  spoke  to  her 
about  it  the  other  day." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  That  she  was  delighted  you  had  something  to  do,  and 
that  she  hoped,  if  Mrs.  Clarke  were  innocent,  she'd  win.  She 
pities  her  for  being  dragged  through  all  this  mud." 


150  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Yes?" 

"  She  said  at  the  end  that  she  hoped  I  wouldn't  think  her 
unsympathetic  if  she  neither  talked  about  the  case  nor  read 
about  it.  She  hates  filling  her  mind  with  ugly  details  and 
horrible  suggestions." 

"  I  see." 

"  You  know,  Guy,  Rosamund  thinks  —  she's  told  me  so 
more  than  once  —  that  the  mind  and  the  soul  are  very  sensitive, 
and  that  —  that  they  ought  to  be  watched  over,  and  —  and 
taken  great  care  of." 

Dion  looked  rather  uncomfortable  as  he  finished.  It  was 
one  thing  to  speak  of  such  matters  with  Rosamund,  and  quite 
another  to  touch  on  them  with  a  man,  even  a  man  who  was  a 
trusted  friend. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  rather  not  come  at  all?  " 

"  No,  no.  I'll  come  once.  You  know  how  keen  I  am  on 
your  making  a  good  start." 

Daventry  took  him  at  his  word,  and  got  him  a  seat  beside 
Mrs.  Chetwinde  on  the  third  day  of  the  trial,  when  Mrs. 
Clarke's  cross-examination,  begun  on  the  previous  day,  was 
continued  by  Sir  Edward  Jeffson,  Beadon  Clarke's  leading 
counsel. 

Dion  told  Rosamund  where  he  was  going  when  he  left  the 
house  in  the  morning. 

"  I  hope  it  will  go  well  for  poor  Mrs.  Clarke,"  she  said 
kindly,  but  perhaps  rather  indifferently. 

She  had  not  looked  at  the  reports  of  the  case  in  the  papers, 
and  had  not  discussed  its  progress  with  Dion.  He  was  not 
sorry  for  that.  It  was  a  horrible  case,  full  of  abominable 
allegations  and  suggestions  such  as  he  would  have  hated  to 
discuss  with  his  Rosamund.  As  he  stood  in  the  little  hall  of 
their  house,  which  was  delicately  scented  with  lavender  and 
lit  by  pale  sunshine,  bidding  her  good-by,  he  realized  the  im- 
possibility of  such  a  woman  as  she  was  ever  being  "  mixed  up  " 
in  such  a  trial.  Simply  that  couldn't  happen,  he  thought. 
Instinct  would  keep  her  far  from  every  suggestion  of  a  pos- 
sible impurity.  He  felt  certain  that  Mrs.  Clarke  was  innocent, 
but,  as  he  looked  into  Rosamund's  honest  brown  eyes,  he 
thought  that  Mrs.  Clarke  must  have  been  singularly  imprudent. 
He  remembered  how  she  had  held  his  hand  in  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde's  drawing-room.  Wisdom  and  unwisdom;  he  compared 
them:  the  one  was  a  builder  up,  the  other  a  destroyer  of  beauty 


ECHO  151 

—  the  beauty  that  is  in  every  completely  sane  and  perfectly 
poised  life. 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  to  kiss  his  wife,  "  I  think 
you  are  very  wise." 

"Why  wise  all  of  a  sudden?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  You  keep  the  door  of  your  life." 

He  glanced  round  at  the  little  hall,  simple,  fresh,  with  a 
few  white  roses  in  a  blue  pot,  the  pale  sunshine  lying  on  the 
polished  floor  of  wood,  the  small  breeze  coming  in  almost  af- 
fectionately between  snowy  curtains.  Purity  —  everything 
seemed  to  whisper  of  that,  to  imply  that;  simplicity  ruling, 
complexity  ruled  out. 

And  then  he  was  sitting  in  the  crowded  court,  breathing 
bad  air,  hearing  foul  suggestions,  watching  strained  or  hateful 
faces,  surrounded  by  people  who  were  attracted  by  ugly  things 
as  vultures  are  attracted  by  the  stench  of  dead  and  decaying 
bodies.  At  first  he  loathed  being  there;  presently,  however,  he 
became  interested,  then  almost  fascinated  by  his  surroundings 
and  by  the  drama  which  was  being  played  slowly  out  in  the 
midst  of  them. 

Daventry,  in  wig  and  gown,  looked  tremendously  legal  and 
almost  severe  in  his  tense  gravity.  Sir  John  Addington,  his 
leader,  a  man  of  great  fame,  was  less  tense  in  his  watchfulness, 
amazingly  at  his  ease  with  the  Court,  and  on  smiling  terms 
with  the  President,  who,  full  of  worldly  and  unworldly 
knowledge,  held  the  balance  of  justice  with  an  unwavering 
firmness.  The  jury  looked  startlingly  commonplace,  smug  and 
sleepy,  despite  the  variety  of  type  almost  inevitably  presented 
by  twelve  human  beings.  Not  one  of  them  looked  a  rascal; 
not  one  of  them  looked  an  actively  good  man.  The  intense 
Englishness  of  them  hit  one  in  the  face  like  a  well-directed 
blow  from  a  powerful  fist.  And  they  had  to  give  the  verdict 
on  this  complex  drama  of  Stamboul!  How  much  they  would 
have  to  tell  their  wives  presently!  Their  sense  of  their  un- 
usual importance  pushed  through  the  smugness  heavily,  like 
a  bulky  man  in  broadcloth  shoving  through  a  dull  crowd. 

Mrs.  Clarke  occasionally  glanced  at  them  with  an  air  of 
almost  distressed  inquiry,  as  if  she  had  never  seen  such  cab- 
bages before,  and  was  wondering  about  their  gray  matter.  Her 
life  in  Stamboul  must  have  effected  changes  in  her.  She  looked 
almost  exotic  in  this  court,  despite  the  simplicity  of  her  gown, 
her  unpretending  little  hat;  as  if  her  mind,  perhaps,  had  become 


152  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

exotic.  But  she  certainly  did  not  look  wicked.  Dion  was 
struck  again  by  the  strong  mentality  of  her  and  by  her  haggard- 
ness.  To  him  she  seemed  definitely  a  woman  of  mind,  not 
at  all  an  animal  woman.  When  he  gazed  at  her  he  felt  that 
he  was  gazing  at  mind  rather  than  at  body.  Just  before  she 
went  into  the  box  she  met  his  eyes.  She  stared  at  him,  as  if 
carefully  and  strongly  considering  him;  then  she  nodded.  He 
bowed,  feeling  uncomfortable,  feeling  indeed  almost  a  brute. 

"  She'll  think  I've  come  out  of  filthy  curiosity,"  he  thought, 
looking  round  at  the  greedy  faces  of  the  crowd. 

No  need  to  ask  why  those  faces  were  there. 

He  felt  still  more  uncomfortable  when  Mrs.  Clarke  was  in 
the  witness-box,  and  Sir  Edward  Jeffson  took  up  the  cross- 
examination  which  he  had  begun  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
previous  day. 

Dion  had  very  seldom  been  in  a  Court  of  Justice,  and  had 
never  before  been  in  the  Divorce  Court.  As  the  cross-examina- 
tion of  Mrs.  Clarke  lengthened  out  he  felt  as  if  his  clothes,  and 
the  clothes  of  all  the  human  beings  who  crowded  about  him, 
were  being  ruthlessly  stripped  off,  as  if  an  ugly  and  abom- 
inable nakedness  were  gradually  appearing.  The  shame  of  it 
all  was  very  hateful  to  him;  and  yet  —  yes,  he  couldn't  deny 
it  —  there  was  a  sort  of  dreadful  fascination  in  it,  too. 

The  two  co-respondents,  Hadi  Bey  and  Aristide  Dumeny  of 
the  French  Embassy  in  Constantinople,  were  in  court,  sitting 
not  far  from  Dion,  to  whom  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  less  vague  than, 
but  quite  as  self-possessed  as,  usual,  pointed  them  out. 

Both  were  young  men.  Hadi  Bey,  who  of  course  wore  the 
fez,  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  smart,  alert,  cosmopolitan  and 
cultivated  Turk  of  modern  days.  There  was  a  peculiar  look 
of  vividness  and  brightness  about  him,  in  his  piercing  dark 
eyes,  in  his  red  lips,  in  his  healthy  and  manly  face  with  its 
rosy  brown  complexion  and  its  powerful  decided  chin.  He  had 
none  of  the  sleepiness  and  fatalistic  languor  of  the  fat  hubble- 
bubble  smoking  Turk  of  caricature.  The  whole  of  him  looked 
aristocratic,  energetic,  perfectly  poised  and  absolutely  self-pos- 
sessed. Many  of  the  women  in  court  glanced  at  him  without 
any  distaste. 

Aristide  Dumeny  was  almost  strangely  different  —  an  ashy- 
pale,  dark-eyed,  thin  and  romantic-visaged  man,  stamped  with 
a  curious  expression  of  pain  and  fatalism.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  seen  much,  dreamed  many  dreams,  and  suffered  not  a  little. 
There  was  in  his  face  something  slightly  contemptuous,  as  if, 


ECHO  153 

intellectually,  he  seldom  gazed  up  at  any  man.  He  watched 
Mrs.  Clarke  in  the  box  with  an  enigmatic  closeness  of  atten- 
tion which  seemed  wholly  impersonal,  even  when  she  was  reply- 
ing to  hideous  questions  about  himself.  That  he  had  an  inter- 
esting personality  was  certain.  When  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
twelve  jurymen  he  smiled  ever  so  faintly.  It  seemed  to  him, 
perhaps,  absurd  that  they  should  have  power  over  the  future 
of  the  woman  in  the  witness-box. 

That  woman  showed  an  extraordinary  self-possession  which 
touched  dignity  but  which  never  descended  to  insolence. 
Despite  her  obvious  cleverness  and  mental  resource  she  pre- 
served a  certain  simplicity.  She  did  not  pose  as  a  passionate 
innocent,  or  assume  any  forced  airs  of  supreme  virtue.  She 
presented  herself  rather  as  a  woman  of  the  world  who  was 
careless  of  the  conventions,  because,  she  thought  of  them  as 
chains  which  prevented  free  movement  and  were  destructive 
of  genuine  liberty.  She  acknowledged  that  she  had  been  a 
great  deal  with  Hadi  Bey  and  Dumeny,  that  she  had  often 
made  long  excursions  with  each  of  them  on  foot,  on  horseback, 
in  caiques,  that  she  had  had  them  to  dinner,  separately,  on 
many  occasions  in  a  little  pavilion  which  stood  at  the  end  of 
her  husband's  garden  and  looked  upon  the  Bosporus.  These 
dinners  had  frequently  taken  place  when  her  husband  was 
away  from  home.  Monsieur  Dumeny  was  a  good  musician 
and  had  sometimes  sung  and  played  to  her  till  late  in  the  night. 
Hadi  Bey  had  sometimes  been  her  guide  in  Constantinople  and 
had  given  to  her  the  freedom  of  his  strange  and  mysterious 
city  of  Stamboul.  With  him  she  had  visited  the  mosques, 
with  him  she  had  explored  the  bazaars,  with  him  she  had  sunk 
down  in  the  strange  and  enveloping  melancholy  of  the  vast 
Turkish  cemeteries  which  are  protected  by  forests  of  cypresses. 
All  this  she  acknowledged  without  the  least  discomposure. 
One  of  her  remarks  to  the  cross-examining  counsel  was  this: 

"  You  suggest  that  I  have  been  very  imprudent.  I  answer 
that  I  am  not  able  to  live  what  the  conventional  call  a  prudent 
life.  Such  a  life  would  be  a  living  death  to  me." 

"  Kindly  confine  yourself  to  answering  my  questions,"  re- 
torted Counsel  harshly.  "  I  suggest  that  you  were  far  more 
than  imprudent.  I  suggest  that  when  you  and  Hadi  Bey  re- 
mained together  in  that  pavilion  on  the  Bosporus  until  mid- 
night, until  after  midnight,  you "  and  then  followed 

another  hideous  accusation,  which,  gazing  with  her  observant 
eyes  at  the  brick-red  shaven  face  of  her  accuser,  Mrs.  Clarke 


154  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

quietly  denied.  She  never  showed  temper.  Now  and  then  she 
gave  indications  of  a  sort  of  cold  disgust  or  faint  surprise. 
But  there  were  no  outraged  airs  of  virtue.  A  slight  disdain 
was  evidently  more  natural  to  the  temperament  of  this  woman 
than  any  fierceness  of  protestation.  Once  when  Counsel  said, 
"  I  shall  ask  the  jury  to  infer  " —  something  abominable,  Mrs. 
Clarke  tranquilly  rejoined: 

"  Whatever  they  infer  it  won't  alter  the  truth." 

Daventry  moved  his  shoulders.  Dion  was  certain  that  he 
considered  this  remark  ill-advised.  The  jury,  however,  at 
whom  Mrs.  Clarke  gazed  in  the  short  silence  which  followed, 
seemed,  Dion  thought,  impressed  by  her  firmness.  The 
luncheon  interval  prevented  Counsel  from  saying  anything 
further  just  then,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  stepped  down  from  the  box. 

"Isn't  she  wonderful?" 

Dion  heard  this  murmur,  which  did  not  seem  to  be  addressed 
to  any  particular  person.  It  had  come  from  Mrs.  Chetwinde, 
who  now  got  up  and  went  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Clarke.  The  whole 
court  was  in  movement.  Dion  went  out  to  have  a  hasty  lunch 
with  Daventry. 

"  A  pity  she  said  that !  "  Daventry  said  in  a  low  voice  to 
Dion,  hitching  up  his  gown.  "  Juries  like  to  be  deferred  to." 

"  I  believe  she  impressed  them  by  her  independence." 

"Do  you,  though?  She's  marvelously  intelligent.  Perhaps 
she  knows  more  of  men,  even  of  jurymen,  than  I  do." 

At  lunch  they  discussed  the  case.  Daventry  had  had  two 
or  three  chances  given  to  him  by  Sir  John  Addington,  and 
thought  he  had  done  quite  well. 

"  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Clarke  will  win?  "  said  Dion. 

"  I  know  she's  innocent,  but  I  can't  tell.  She's  so  infernally 
unconventional  and  a  jury's  so  infernally  conventional  that 
I  can't  help  being  afraid." 

Dion  thought  of  his  Rosamund's  tranquil  wisdom. 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Clarke's  very  clever,"  he  said.  "  But  I  sup- 
pose she  isn't  very  wise." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  old  Dion;  she  prefers  life  to 
wisdom." 

"  Well,  but "  Dion  began. 

But  he  stopped.  Now  he  knew  Mrs.  Clarke  a  little  better, 
from  her  own  evidence,  he  knew  just  what  Daventry  meant. 
He  looked  upon  the  life  of  unwisdom,  and  he  was  able  to  feel 
its  fascination.  There  were  scents  in  it  that  lured,  and  there 
were  colors  that  tempted;  in  its  night  there  was  music;  about 


ECHO  155 

it  lay  mystery,  shadows,  and  silver  beams  of  the  moon  shining 
between  cypresses  like  black  towers.  It  gave  out  a  call  to 
which,  perhaps,  very  few  natures  of  men  were  wholly  deaf. 
The  unwise  life!  Almost  for  the  first  time  Dion  considered 
it  with  a  deep  curiosity. 

He  considered  it  more  attentively,  more  curiously,  during  the 
afternoon,  when  Mrs.  Clarke's  cross-examination  was  continued. 

It  was  obvious  that  during  this  trial  two  women  were  being 
presented  to  the  judge  and  jury,  the  one  a  greedy  and  abom- 
inably secret  and  clever  sensualist,  who  hid  her  mania  beneath 
a  cloak  of  intellectuality,  the  other  a  genuine  intellectual,  whose 
mental  appetites  far  outweighed  the  appetites  of  her  body,  who 
was,  perhaps,  a  sensualist,  but  a  sensualist  of  the  spirit  and 
not  of  the  flesh.  Which  of  these  two  women  was  the  real 
Cynthia  Clarke?  The  jury  would  eventually  give  their  de- 
cision, but  it  might  not  be  in  accordance  with  fact.  Meanwhile, 
the  horrible  unclothing  process  was  ruthlessly  proceeded  with. 
But  already  Dion  was  becoming  accustomed  to  it.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Clarke's  self-possession  helped  him  to  assimilate  the 
nauseous  food  which  was  offered  to  him. 

Beadon  Clarke  was  in  court,  and  had  been  pointed  out  to 
Dion,  an  intellectual  and  refined-looking  man,  bald,  with  good 
features,  and  a  gentle,  but  now  pained,  expression;  obviously 
a  straight  and  aristocratic  fellow.  Beside  him  sat  his  mother, 
that  Lady  Ermyntrude  who,  it  was  said,  had  forced  on  the 
trial.  She  sat  upright,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  daughter-in-law, 
a  rather  insignificant  small  woman,  not  very  well  dressed, 
young  looking,  with  hair  done  exactly  in  Queen  Alexandra's 
way,  and  crowned  with  a  black  toque. 

Dion  noticed  that  she  had  a  very  firm  mouth  and  chin.  She 
did  not  look  actively  hostile  as  she  gazed  at  the  witness,  but 
merely  attentive  —  deeply,  concentratedly  attentive.  Mrs. 
Clarke  never  glanced  towards  her. 

Perhaps,  whatever  Lady  Ermyntrude  had  believed  hitherto, 
she  was  now  beginning  to  wonder  whether  her  conception  of 
her  son's  wife  had  been  a  wrong  one,  was  beginning  to  ask  her- 
self whether  she  had  divined  the  nature  of  the  soul  inhabiting 
the  body  which  now  stood  up  before  her. 

About  an  hour  before  the  close  of  the  sitting  the  heat  in 
court  became  almost  suffocating,  and  the  Judge  told  Mrs.  Clarke 
she  might  continue  her  evidence  sitting  down.  She  refused 
this  favor. 

"  I'm  not  at  all  tired,  my  lord,"  she  said. 


156  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  She's  made  of  iron,"  Mrs.  Chetwinde  murmured  to  Dion. 
"  Though  she  generally  looks  like  a  corpse.  She  was  haggard 
even  as  a  girl." 

"  Did  you  know  her  then?  "  he  whispered. 

"  I've  known  her  all  my  life." 

Daventry  wiped  his  brow  with  a  large  pocket-handkerchief, 
performing  the  action  legally.  One  of  the  jurymen,  who  was 
too  fat,  and  had  something  of  the  expression  of  a  pug  dog, 
opened  his  mouth  and  rolled  slightly  in  his  seat.  The  cross- 
examination  became  with  every  moment  more  disagreeable. 
Beadon  Clarke  never  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  knees.  All  the 
women  in  court,  except  Mrs.  Chetwinde  and  Mrs.  Clarke,  were 
looking  strangely  alive  and  conscious.  Dion  had  forgotten 
everything  except  Stamboul  and  the  life  of  unwisdom.  Sup- 
pose Mrs.  Clarke  had  lived  the  life  imputed  to  her  by  Counsel, 
suppose  she  really  were  a  consummately  clever  and  astound- 
ingly  ingenious  humbug,  driven,  as  many  human  beings  are 
driven,  by  a  dominating  vice  which  towered  over  her  life-issuing 
commands  she  had  not  the  strength  to  resist,  how  had  it  profited 
her?  Had  she  had  great  rewards  in  it?  Had  she  been  led 
down  strange  ways  guided  by  fascination  bearing  the  torch 
from  which  spring  colored  fires?  Good  women  sometimes,  per- 
haps oftener  than  many  people  realize,  look  out  of  the  window 
and  try  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  world  of  the  wicked  women, 
asking  themselves,  "  Is  it  worth  while?  Is  their  time  so  much 
better  than  mine?  Am  I  missing  —  missing?"  And  they 
shut  the  window  —  for  fear.  Far  away,  turning  the  corner 
of  some  dark  alley,  they  have  seen  the  colored  gleam  of  the 
torch. 

Rosamund  would  never  do  that  —  would  never  even  want 
to  do  that.  She  was  not  one  of  the  good  women  who  love  to 
take  just  a  peep  at  evil  "  because  one  ought  to  know  something 
of  the  trials  and  difficulties  of  those  less  fortunately  circum- 
stanced than  oneself." 

But,  for  the  moment,  Dion  had  quite  forgotten  his  Rosa- 
mund. She  was  in  England,  but  he  was  in  Stamboul,  hearing 
the  waters  of  the  Bosporus  lapping  at  the  foot  of  Mrs.  Clarke's 
garden  pavilion,  while  Dumeny  played  to  her  as  the  moon 
came  up  to  shine  upon  the  sweet  waters  of  Asia ;  or  sitting  under 
the  plane  trees  of  the  Pigeon  Mosque,  while  Hadi  Bey  showed 
her  how  to  write  an  Arabic  love-letter  —  to  somebody  in  the 
air,  of  course.  In  this  trial  he  felt  the  fascination  of  Con- 
stantinople as  he  had  never  felt  it  when  he  was  in  Constant!- 


ECHO  157 

nople;  but  he  felt,  too,  that  only  those  who  strayed  deliberately 
from  the  beaten  paths  could  ever  capture  the  full  fascination 
of  the  divided  city,  which  looks  to  Europe  and  to  Asia,  and 
is  set  along  the  way  of  the  sea. 

Whether  innocent  or  guilty,  Mrs.  Clarke  had  certainly  done 
that.  He  watched  her  with  a  growing  interest.  How  very 
much  she  must  know  that  he  did  not  know.  Then  he  glanced 
at  Hadi  Bey,  who  still  sat  up  alertly,  who  still  looked  bright 
and  vivid,  intelligent,  ready  for  anything,  a  man  surely  with 
muscles  of  steel  and  a  courageous  robust  nature,  and  at  Aris- 
tide  Dumeny.  Upon  the  latter  his  eyes  rested  for  a  long  time. 
When  at  last  he  again  looked  at  Mrs.  Clarke  he  had  formed 
the  definite  impression  that  Dumeny  was  corrupt  —  an  interest- 
ing man,  a  clever,  probably  a  romantic  as  well  as  a  cynical 
man,  but  certainly  corrupt. 

Didn't  that  tell  against  Mrs.  Clarke? 

She  was  now  being  questioned  about  a  trip  at  night  in  a 
caique  with  Hadi  Bey  down  the  sweet  waters  of  Asia  where 
willows  lean  over  the  stream.  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  pale  eyes 
were  fastened  upon  her.  Beadon  Clarke  bent  his  head  a  little 
lower  as,  in  her  husky  voice,  his  wife  said  that  he  knew  of  the 
expedition,  had  apparently  smiled  upon  her  unconventionalities, 
knowing  how  entirely  free  she  was  from  the  ugly  bias  towards 
vice  attributed  to  her  by  Counsel. 

Lady  Ermyntrude  Clarke  shot  a  glance  at  her  son,  and  her 
firm  mouth  became  firmer. 

The  willows  bent  over  the  sweet  waters  in  the  warm  summer 
night;  the  Albanian  boatmen  were  singing. 

"  She  must  have  had  wonderful  times !  " 

The  whisper  came  from  an  unseen  woman  sitting  just  behind 
Dion.  His  mind  echoed  the  thought  she  had  expressed. 
Now  the  Judge  was  rising  from  the  bench  and  bowing  to  the 
Court;  Mrs.  Clarke  was  stepping  down  from  the  witness-box; 
Dumeny,  his  eyes  half  closed,  was  brushing  his  shining  silk 
hat  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat;  Beadon  Clarke  was  leaning  to 
speak  to  his  mother. 

The  Court  was  adjourned. 

As  Dion  got  up  he  felt  the  heat  as  if  it  were  heat  from  a 
furnace.  His  face  and  his  body  were  burning. 

"  Come  and  speak  to  Cynthia,  and  take  us  to  tea  somewhere 
—  can  you?"  said  Mrs.  Chetwinde. 

"  Of  course,  with  pleasure." 

"Your  Rosamund ?" 


158  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Her  eyes  were  on  him  for  a  moment. 

"  She  won't  expect  me  at  any  particular  time." 

"  Mr.  Daventry  can  come  too." 

Dion  never  forgot  their  difficult  exit  from  the  court.  It 
made  him  feel  ashamed  for  humanity,  for  the  crowd  which 
frantically  pressed  to  stare  at  a  woman  because  perhaps  she 
had  done  things  which  were  considered  by  all  right-minded 
people  to  be  disgusting.  Mrs.  Clarke  and  her  little  party  of 
friends  had  to  be  helped  by  the  police.  When  at  length  they 
were  driving  away  towards  Claridge's  Hotel,  Dion  was  able 
once  more  to  meet  the  eyes  of  his  companions,  and  again  he  was 
amazed  at  the  self-possession  of  Mrs.  Clarke.  Really  she 
seemed  as  composed,  as  completely  mistress  of  herself,  as  when 
he  had  first  seen  her  standing  near  the  statue  of  Echo  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Mrs.  Chetwinde. 

"  You  haven't  been  in  court  before  to-day,  have  you?  "  she 
said  to  Dion. 

"  No." 

"  Why  did  you  come  to-day?  " 

"  Well,  I  —  He  hesitated.  "  I  promised  Mr.  Daventry 

to  come  to-day." 

"That  was  it!"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  she  looked  out  of 
the  window. 

Dion  felt  rather  uncomfortable  as  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde and  left  further  conversation  with  Mrs.  Clarke  to  Daven- 
try; but  when  they  were  all  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  tearoom 
at  Claridge's,  a  tea-table  before  them  and  a  band  playing  softly 
at  a  distance,  he  was  more  at  his  ease.  The  composure  of  Mrs. 
Clarke  perhaps  conveyed  itself  to  him.  She  spoke  of  the  case 
quite  naturally,  as  a  guilty  woman  surely  could  not  possibly 
have  spoken  of  it  —  showing  no  venom,  making  no  attack  upon 
her  accusers. 

"  It's  all  a  mistake,"  she  said,  "  arising  out  of  stupidity, 
out  of  the  most  widespread  and,  perhaps,  the  most  pitiable 
and  dangerous  lack  in  human  nature." 

"And  what's  that?"  asked  Daventry,  rather  eagerly. 

"  I  expect  you  know." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  you?"  she  asked  of  Dion,  spreading  thinly  some 
butter  over  a  piece  of  dry  toast. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't." 

"  Cynthia  means  the  lack  of  power  to  read  character,  the 


ECHO  159 

lack  of  the  psychological  instinct,"  drifted  from  the  lips  of 
Mrs.  Chetwinde. 

"  Three-quarters  of  the  misunderstandings  and  miseries  of 
the  world  come  from  that,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  looking  at  the 
now  buttered  toast.  "  If  my  mother-in-law  and  my  husband 
had  any  psychological  faculty  they  would  never  have  mistaken 
my  unconventionality,  which  I  shall  never  give  up,  for  common, 
and  indeed  very  vulgar,  sinfulness." 

"  Confusing  the  pastel  with  the  oleograph,"  dropped  out 
Mrs.  Chetwinde,  looking  abstractedly  at  an  old  red  woman 
in  a  turret  of  ostrich  plumes,  who  was  spread  out  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room  before  a  plate  of  cakes. 

"  You  are  sure  Lady  Ermyntrude  didn't  understand?  "  said 
Daventry,  with  a  certain  sharp  legality  of  manner. 

"  You  mean  that  she  might  be  wicked  instead  of  only 
stupid?  " 

"  Well,  yes.     I  suppose  it  does  come  to  that." 

"  Believe  me,  Mr.  Daventry,  she's  a  quite  honest  stupid 
woman.  She  honestly  thinks  that  I'm  a  horrible  creature." 

And  Mrs.  Clarke  began  to  bite  the  crisp  toast  with  her  lovely 
teeth.  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  eyes  dwelt  on  her  for  a  brief  instant 
with,  Dion  thought,  a  rather  peculiar  look  which  he  could  not 
quite  understand.  It  had,  perhaps,  a  hint  of  hardness,  or  of 
cold  admiration,  something  of  that  kind,  in  it. 

"  Tell  me  some  more  about  the  baby,"  was  Mrs.  Clarke's 
next  remark,  addressed  to  Dion..  "I  want  to  get  away  for  a 
minute  into  a  happy  domestic  life.  And  yours  is  that,  I  know." 

How  peculiarly  haggard,  and  yet  how  young  she  looked  as 
she  said  that!  She  added: 

"If  the  case  ends  as  I  feel  sure  it  will,  I  hope  your  wife 
and  I  shall  get  to  know  each  other.  I  hear  she's  the  most 
delightful  woman  in  London,  and  extraordinarily  beautiful. 
Isn't  she?" 

"  I  think  she  is  beautiful,"  Dion  said  simply. 

And  then  they  talked  about  Robin,  while  Mrs.  Chetwinde 
and  Daventry  discussed  some  question  of  the  day.  Before  they 
parted  Dion  could  not  help  saying: 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

"Yes?" 

"  Why  do  you  feel  sure  that  the  trial  will  end  as  it  ought 
to  end?  Surely  the  lack  of  the  psychological  instinct  is 
peculiarly  abundant  —  if  a  lack  can  be  abundant!" — he 


160  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

smiled,  almost  laughed,  a  little  deprecatingly  — "  in  a  British 
jury?  " 

"  And  so  you  think  they're  likely  to  go  wrong  in  their 
verdict?  " 

"  Doesn't  it  rather  follow?  " 

She  stared  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were,  or  looked,  even  more 
widely  opened  than  usual.  After  a  long  pause  she  said: 

"  You  wish  to  frighten  me." 

She  got  up,  and  began  to  draw  on  her  dove-colored  Swedish 
kid  gloves. 

"  Tippie,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  "  I  must  go  home 
now  and  have  a  little  rest." 

Only  then  did  Dion  realize  how  marvelously  she  was  bearing 
a  tremendous  strain.  He  began  to  admire  her  prodigiously. 

\Yhen  he  said  good-by  to  her  under  the  great  porch  he 
couldn't  help  asking: 

"  Are  your  nerves  of  steel?  " 

She  leaned  forward  in  the  brougham. 

"  If  your  muscles  are  of  iron." 

"  My  muscles !  "  he  said. 

"Haven't  you  educated  them?" 

"Oh  — yes." 

"  And  perhaps  I've  educated  my  nerves." 

Mrs.  Chetwinde's  spirited  horses  began  to  prance  and  show 
temper.  Mrs.  Clarke  sat  back.  As  the  carriage  moved  away, 
Dion  saw  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  They  looked 
at  that  moment  not  at  all  vague.  If  they  had  not  been  her 
eyes,  he  would  have  been  inclined  to  think  them  piercing. 
But,  of  course,  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  eyes  could  never  be  that. 

"How  does  one  educate  one's  nerves,  Guy?"  asked  Dion, 
as  the  two  friends  walked  away. 

"  By  being  defendant  in  a  long  series  of  divorce  cases,  I 
should  say." 

"  Has  Mrs.  Clarke  ever  been  in  another  case  of  this  kind?  " 

"  Good  heavens,  no.  If  she  had,  even  I  couldn't  believe 
in  her  innocence,  as  I  do  now." 

"Then  where  did  she  get  her  education?  " 

"Where  do  women  get  things,  old  Dion?  It  seems  to  me 
sometimes  straight  from  God,  and  sometimes  straight  from 
the  devil." 

Dion's  mental  comment  on  this  was,  "  What  about  Mrs. 
Clarke?  "  But  he  did  not  utter  it. 

Before  he  left  Daventry,  he  was  pledged  to  be  in  court  on 


ECHO  161 

the  last  day  of  the  case,  when  the  verdict  would  be  given.  He 
wished  to  go  to  the  court  again  on  the  morrow,  but  the  thought 
of  Rosamund  decided  him  not  to  do  this;  he  would,  he  knew, 
feel  almost  ashamed  in  telling  her  that  the  divorce  court,  at 
this  moment,  fascinated  him,  that  he  longed,  or  almost  longed, 
to  follow  the  colored  fires  of  a  certain  torch  down  further 
shadowy  alleys  of  the  unwise  life.  He  felt  quite  sure  that 
Mrs.  Clarke  was  an  innocent  woman,  but  she  had  certainly 
been  very  unconventional  indeed  in  her  conduct.  He  remem- 
bered the  almost  stern  strength  in  her  husky  voice  when  she  had 
said  "  my  unconventionality,  which  I  shall  never  give  up." 
So  even  this  hideous  and  widely  proclaimed  scandal  would  not 
induce  her  to  bow  in  the  future  before  the  conventional  gods. 
She  really  was  an  extraordinary  woman.  What  would  Rosa- 
mund think  of  her?  If  she  won  her  case  she  evidently  meant 
to  know  Rosamund.  Of  course,  there  could  be  nothing  against 
that.  If  she  lost  the  case,  naturally  there  could  never  be  any 
question  of  such  an  acquaintance;  he  knew  instinctively  that 
she  would  never  suggest  it.  Whatever  she  was,  or  was  not, 
she  was  certainly  a  woman  of  the  world. 

That  evening,  when  he  reached  home,  he  found  Rosamund 
sitting  in  the  nursery  in  the  company  of  Robin  and  the  nurse. 
The  window  was  partially  open.  Rosamund  believed  in  plenty 
of  air  for  her  child,  and  no  "  cosseting  ";  she  laughed  to  scorn, 
but  genially,  the  nurse's  prejudice  against  "  the  night  air." 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "  must  get  accustomed  to  night  as  well 
as  day,  Nurse  —  and  the  sooner  the  better."  So  now  "Master 
Robin  "  was  played  upon  by  a  little  wind  from  Westminster. 
He  seemed  in  no  way  alarmed  by  it.  This  evening  he  was 
serene,  and  when  his  father  entered  the  room  he  assumed  his 
expression  of  mild  inquiry,  vaguely  agitated  his  small  rose- 
colored  fists,  and  blew  forth  a  welcoming  bubble. 

Dion  was  touched  at  the  sight. 

"  Little  rogue!  "  he  said,  bending  over  Robin.  "  Little,  little 
rogue!  " 

Robin  raised  his,  as  yet  scarcely  defined,  eyebrows,  stared 

remendously  hard  at  the  nursery  atmosphere,  puffed  out  his 

vet  lips  and  gurgled,  at  the  same  time  wagging  his  head,  now 

licely  covered  with  silky  fair  hair,  or  down,  whichever  you 

chose  to  call  it. 

"  He  knows  his  papa,  ma'am,  and  that  he  does,  a  boy!  "  said 
the  nurse,  who  approved  of  Dion,  and  had  said  below  stairs 
that  he  was  "  as  good  a  husband  as  ever  wore  shoe-leather." 


162  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Of  course  he  does,"  said  Rosamund  softly.  "  Babies  have 
plenty  of  intelligence  of  a  kind,  and  I  think  it's  a  darling  kind." 

Dion  sat  down  beside  her,  and  they  both  bent  over  Robin 
in  the  gathering  twilight,  while  the  nurse  went  softly  out  of 
the  room. 

Dion  had  quite  forgotten  the  Clarke  case. 


CHAPTER  V 

THREE  days  later  Daventry  called  in  Little  Market  Street 
early,  and  was  shown  into  the  dining-room  where  he 
found  Rosamund  alone  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Do  forgive  me  for  bursting  in  upon  the  boiled  eggs,"  he 
said,  looking  unusually  excited.  "  I'm  off  almost  directly  to 
the  Law  Courts  and  I  want  to  take  Dion  with  me.  It's  the  last 
day  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  case.  We  expect  the  verdict  some  time 
this  evening.  I  dare  say  the  court  will  sit  late.  Where's 
Dion?" 

"  He's  just  coming  down.  We  were  both  disturbed  in  the 
night,  so  we  slept  later  than  usual." 

"Disturbed?     Burglars?     Fire?" 

"No;  Robin's  not  at  all  well." 

"  I  say!     I'm  sorry  for  that.     What  is  it?  " 

"  He's  had  a  very  bad  throat  and  been  feverish,  poor  little 
chap.  But  I  think  he's  better  this  morning.  The  doctor  came." 

"  You'll  sever  be  one  of  the  fussy  mothers." 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  said,  rather  gravely;  "  I'm  not  fond  of 
them.  Here's  Dion." 

Daventry  sat  with  them  while  they  breakfasted,  and  Dion 
agreed  to  keep  his  promise  and  go  to  the  court. 

"  I  told  Uncle  Biron  I  must  be  away  from  business  to  hear 
the  summing-up,"  he  said.  "  I'll  send  a  telegram  to  the  office. 
Do  you  think  it  will  be  all  right  for  Mrs.  Clarke?  " 

"  She's  innocent,  but  nobody  can  say.  It  depends  so  much 
on  the  summing-up." 

Dion  glanced  at  Rosamund. 

"  You  mustn't  think  I'm  going  to  turn  into  an  idler,  Rose. 
This  is  a  very  special  occasion." 

"  I  know.     Mr.  Daventry's  first  case." 


ECHO  163 

"  Haven't  you  followed  it  at  all  ?  "  Daventry  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  but  I've  been  wishing  you  well  all  the  same." 

When  the  two  men  got  up  to  go,  Dion  said: 

"Rosamund!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  If  Mrs.  Clarke  wins  and  is  completely  exonerated,  I  think 
she  would  like  very  much  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Rosamund  looked  surprised. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  Well,  she  said  something  to  that  effect  the  other  day." 

"  She's  a  very  interesting,  clever  woman,"  interposed  Daven- 
try, with  sudden  warmth. 

"  I'm  sure  she  is.  We  must  see.  It's  very  kind  of  her. 
Poor  woman!  What  dreadful  anxiety  she  must  be  in  to-day! 
You'll  all  be  glad  when  it's  over." 

When  the  two  friends  were  out  in  the  sunshine,  walking 
towards  the  Strand,  Daventry  said: 

"  Why  is  your  wife  against  Mrs.  Clarke?  " 

"  She  isn't.     What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  I'm  quite  sure  she  doesn't  want  to  know  her,  even  if  she 
gets  the  verdict." 

"  Well,  of  course  all  this  sort  of  thing  is  —  it's  very  far  away 
from  Rosamund." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  doubt  Mrs.  Clarke?  " 

"No,  but " 

"  Surely  if  she's  innocent  she's  as  good  as  any  other  woman." 

"I  know,  but I  suppose  it's  like  this:  there  are  dif- 
ferent ways  of  being  good,  and  perhaps  Mrs.  Clarke's  way  isn't 
Rosamund's.  In  fact,  we  know  it  isn't." 

Daventry  said  nothing  more  on  the  subject;  he  began  to 
discuss  the  case  in  all  its  bearings,  and  presently  dwelt  upon  the 
great  power  English  judges  have  over  the  decisions  of  juries. 

"  Mrs.  Clarke  gave  her  evidence  splendidly  on  the  whole," 
he  said.  "  And  Hadi  Bey  made  an  excellent  impression.  My 
one  fear  is  that  fellow  Aristide  Dumeny.  You  didn't  hear 
him,  but,  of  course,  you  read  his  evidence.  He  was  perfectly 
composed  and  as  clever  as  he  could  be  in  the  box,  but  I'm  sure, 
somehow,  the  jury  were  against  him." 

"Why?" 

"  I  hardly  know.     It  may  be  something  in  his  personality." 

"  I  believe  he's  a  beast,"  said  Dion. 

"  There!  "  exclaimed  Daventry,  wrinkling  his  forehead.     "  If 


164  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  Judge  thinks  as  you  do  it  may  just  turn  things  against  us." 

"  Why  did  she  make  a  friend  of  the  fellow?  " 

"  Because  he's  chock-full  of  talent  and  knowledge,  and  she 
loves  both.  Dion,  my  boy,  the  mind  can  play  the  devil  with 
us  as  well  as  the  body.  But  I  hope  —  I  hope  for  the  right 
verdict.  Anyhow  I've  done  well,  and  shall  get  other  cases  out 
of  this.  The  odd  thing  is  that  Mrs.  Clarke's  drained  me  dry 
of  egoism.  I  care  only  to  win  for  her.  I  couldn't  bear  to  see 
her  go  out  of  court  with  a  ruined  reputation.  My  nerves  are 
all  on  edge.  If  Mrs.  Clarke  loses,  how  d'you  think  she'll  take 
it?" 

"  Standing  up." 

"  I  expect  you're  right.  But  I  don't  believe  I  shall  take 
it  standing.  Perhaps  some  women  make  us  men  feel  for  them 
more  than  they  feel  for  themselves.  Don't  look  at  me  in  court 
whatever  you  do." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  Law  Courts.     He  hurried  away. 

Dion's  place  was  again  beside  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  who  looked 
unusually  alive,  and  whose  vagueness  had  been  swept  away 
by  something  —  anxiety  for  her  friend,  perhaps,  or  the  excite- 
ment of  following  day  after  day  an  unusually  emotional  cause 
celebre. 

Now,  as  Sir  John  Addington  stood  up  to  continue  his  speech 
on  Mrs.  Clarke's  behalf,  begun  on  the  previous  day,  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde leaned  forward  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him,  closing  her 
fingers  tightly  on  the  fan  she  had  brought  with  her. 

Sir  John  spoke  with  an  earnestness  and  conviction  which  at 
certain  moments  rose  almost  to  passion,  as  he  drew  the  portrait 
of  a  woman  whose  brilliant  mind  and  innocent  nature  had 
led  her  into  the  unconventional  conduct  which  her  enemies  now 
asserted  was  wickedness.  Beadon  Clarke's  counsel  had  sug- 
gested that  Mrs.  Clarke  was  an  abominable  woman,  brilliantly 
clever,  exquisitely  subtle,  who  had  chosen  as  an  armor  against 
suspicion  a  bold  pretense  of  simplicity  and  harmless  uncon- 
ventionality,  but  who  was  the  prey  of  a  hidden  and  ungovern- 
able vice.  He,  Sir  John,  ventured  to  put  forward  for  the  jury's 
careful  examination  a  very  different  picture.  He  made  no 
secret  of  the  fact  that,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  ordinary 
unconventional  man  or  woman,  Mrs.  Clarke  had  often  acted 
unwisely,  and,  with  not  too  fine  a  sarcasm,  he  described  for 
the  jury  the  average  existence  of  "  a  careful  drab  woman  " 
in  the  watchful  and  eternally  gossiping  diplomatic  world. 
Then  he  contrasted  with  it  the  life  led  by  Mrs.  Clarke  in  the 


ECHO  165 

wonderful  city  of  Stamboul  —  a  life  "  full  of  color,  of  taste, 
of  interest,  of  charm,  of  innocent,  joyous  and  fragrant  liberty.. 
Which  of  us,"  he  demanded,  "  would  not  in  our  souls  prefer 
the  latter  life  to  the  former?  Which  of  us  did  not  secretly 
long  for  the  touch  of  romance,  of  strangeness,  of  beauty,  to 
put  something  into  our  lives  which  they  lacked?  But  we  have 
not  the  moral  courage  to  break  our  prison  doors  and  to  emerge 
into  the  nobler  world." 

"  The  dull,  the  drab,  the  platter-faced  and  platter-minded 
people,"  he  said,  in  a  passage  which  Dion  was  always  to  remem- 
ber, "  who  go  forever  bowed  down  beneath  the  heavy  yoke 
of  convention,  are  too  often  apt  to  think  that  everything  charm- 
ing, everything  lively,  everything  unusual,  everything  which 
gives  out,  like  sweet  incense,  a  delicate  aroma  of  strangeness, 
must  be,  somehow,  connected  with  wickedness.  Everything 
which  deviates  from  their  pattern  must  deviate  towards  the 
devil,  according  to  them;  every  step  taken  away  from  the  beaten 
path  must  be  taken  towards  ultimate  destruction.  They  have 
no  conception  of  intimacies  between  women  and  men  cemented 
not  by  similar  lusts  and  similar  vices,  but  by  similar  intellec- 
tual tastes  and  similar  aspirations  towards  beauty.  In  color 
such  people  always  find  blackness,  in  gaiety  wickedness,  in 
liberty  license,  in  the  sacred  intimacies  of  the  soul  the  hateful 
vices  of  the  body.  But  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury " 

His  appeal  to  the  twelve  in  the  box  at  this  moment  was, 
perhaps,  scarcely  convincing.  He  addressed  them  as  if,  like 
Mrs.  Clarke  and  himself,  they  were  enamored  of  the  unwise 
life,  which  is  only  unwise  because  we  live  in  a  world  of  cen- 
sorious fools,  and  as  if  he  knew  it.  The  strange  thing  was 
that  the  jury  were  evidently  impressed  if  not  carried  away,  by 
his  appeal.  They  sat  forward,  stared  at  Sir  John  as  if  fasci- 
nated, and  even  began  to  assume  little  airs  which  were  almost 
devil-may-care.  But  when,  with  a  precise  and  deliberately 
cold  acuteness,  Sir  John  turned  to  the  evidence  adverse  to  his 
client,  and  began  to  tear  it  to  shreds,  they  stared  less,  frowned, 
and  showed  by  their  expressions  their  efforts  to  be  legal. 

As  soon  as  Sir  John  had  finished  his  speech,  the  Court  rose 
for  the  luncheon  interval. 

"  Are  you  going  out?  "  said  Mrs.  Chetwinde  to  Dion.  "  I've 
brought  some  horrible  little  sandwiches,  and  I  shan't  stir." 

"  I'm  not  hungry.     I'll  stay  with  you." 

He  sighed. 

"  What  a  crowd !  "  he  said,  looking  round  over  the  sea  of 


166  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

hot,    staring    faces.     "  How   horrid   people    look    sometimes !  " 

"  When  they're  feeling  cruel." 

She  began  to  eat  her  sandwiches,  which  were  tightly  packed 
in  a  small  silver  box. 

"  Isn't  Mrs.  Clarke  coming  to-day?  "  Dion  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  expect  her  in  a  moment.  Esme  Darlington  is 
bringing  her." 

"Mr.  Darlington?" 

"  You're  surprised?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  hardly  have  expected  somehow  that  —  I 
don't  know." 

"  I  do.  But  Esme  Darlington's  more  of  a  man  than  he 
seems.  And  he's  thoroughly  convinced  of  Cynthia's  innocence. 
Here  they  are." 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd.  Many  women  present  rustled 
as  they  turned  in  their  seats;  some  stood  up  and  craned 
forward;  people  in  the  gallery  leaned  over,  looking  eagerly 
down ;  a  loud  murmur  and  a  wide  hiss  of  whispering  emphasized 
the  life  in  the  court.  The  tall,  loose-limbed  figure  of  Esme 
Darlington,  looking  to-day  singularly  dignified  and  almost  im- 
pressive, pushed  slowly  forward,  followed  by  the  woman  whose 
social  fate  was  so  soon  to  be  decided. 

Mrs.  Clarke  glanced  round  over  the  many  faces  without  any 
defiance  as  she  made  her  way  with  difficulty  to  a  seat  beside 
her  solicitor.  The  lack  of  defiance  in  her  expression  struck 
Dion  forcibly.  This  woman  did  not  seem  to  be  mentally  on 
the  defensive,  did  not  seem  to  be  wishing  to  repel  the  glances, 
fierce  with  curiosity,  which  were  leveled  at  her  from  all  sides. 
Apparently  she  had  no  fear  at  all  of  bristling  bayonets.  Her 
haggard  face  was  unsmiling,  not  cold,  but  intense  with  a  sort 
of  living  calm  which  was  surely  not  a  mask.  She  looked  at 
Mrs.  Chetwinde  and  at  Dion  as  she  passed  near  to  them,  giving 
them  no  greeting  except  with  her  large  eyes  which  obviously 
recognized  them.  In  a  moment  she  was  sitting  down  between 
her  solicitor  and  Esme  Darlington. 

"  It  will  quite  break  Guy  Daventry  up  if  she  doesn't  get  the 
verdict,"  said  Dion  in  an  uneven  voice  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde. 

"  Mr.  Daventry  ?  "  she  said,  with  an  odd  little  stress  of 
emphasis  on  the  name. 

"  Of  course  I  should  hate  it  too.  Any  man  who  feels  a 
woman  is  innocent " 

He  broke  off.  She  said  nothing,  and  went  on  eating  her 
little  sandwiches  as  if  she  rather  disliked  them. 


ECHO  167 

"  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  do  tell  me.  I  believe  you've  got  an  ex- 
traordinary flair  —  will  she  win?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  now  how  can  I  know?  " 

Dion  felt  very  young  for  a  minute. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you  expect." 

Mrs.  Chetwinde  closed  the  small  silver  box  with  a  soft  snap. 

"  I  fully  expect  her  to  win." 

"Because  she's  innocent?" 

"  Oh  no.  That's  no  reason  in  a  world  like  this,  un- 
fortunately." 

"  But,  then,  why?  " 

"  Because  Cynthia  always  does  get  what  she  wants,  or  needs. 
She  has  quite  abnormal  will-power,  and  will-power  is  the  con- 
queror. If  I'm  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  see  only  one  reason 
for  doubt,  I  don't  say  fear,  as  to  the  result." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Aristide  Dumeny." 

At  this  moment  the  Judge  returned  to  the  bench.  An  hour 
later  he  began  to  sum  up. 

He  spoke  very  slowly  and  rather  monotonously,  and  at  first 
Dion  thought  that  he  was  going  to  be  "  let  down  "  by  this 
almost  cruelly  level  finale  to  a  dramatic,  sometimes  even  hor- 
rible, struggle  between  powerful  opposing  forces.  But  presently 
he  began  to  come  under  a  new  fascination,  the  fascination  of 
a  cool  and  very  clear  presentation  of  undressed  facts.  Led  by 
the  Judge,  he  reviewed  again  the  complex  life  at  Constantinople, 
he  followed  again  Mrs.  Clarke's  many  steps  away  from  the 
beaten  paths,  he  penetrated  again  through  some  of  the  winding 
ways  into  the  shadows  of  the  unwise  life.  And  he  began  to 
wonder  a  little  and  a  little  to  fear  for  the  woman  who  was 
sitting  so  near  to  him  waiting  for  the  end.  He  could  not  tell 
whether  the  Judge  believed  her  to  be  innocent  or  guilty,  but 
he  thought  he  could  tell  that  the  Judge  considered  her  indis- 
creet, too  heedless  of  those  conventions  on  which  social  rela- 
tions are  based,  too  determined  a  follower  after  the  flitting 
light  of  her  own  desires.  Presently  the  position  of  Beadon 
Clarke  in  the  Constantinople  menage  was  touched  upon,  and 
suddenly  Dion  found  himself  imagining  how  it  would  be  to 
have  as  his  wife  a  Mrs.  Clarke.  Suppose  Rosamund  were  to 
develop  the  unconventional  idiosyncrasies  of  a  Cynthia  Clarke? 
He  realized  at  once  that  he  was  not  a  Beadon  Clarke;  he  could 
never  stand  that  sort  of  thing.  He  felt  hot  at  the  mere  thought 
of  his  Rosamund  making  night  expeditions  in  caiques  alone 


168  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

with  young  men  —  such,  for  instance,  as  Hadi  Bey;  or  listening 
alone  at  midnight  in  a  garden  pavilion  isolated,  shaded  by 
trees,  to  the  music  made  by  a  Dumeny. 

Dumeny!     The  Judge  pronounced  his  name. 

"  I  come  now  to  the  respondent's  relation  with  the  second  co- 
respondent, Aristide  Dumeny  of  the  French  Embassy  in  Con- 
stantinople." 

Dion  leaned  slightly  forward  and  looked  at  Dumeny.  Du- 
meny was  sitting  bolt  upright,  and  now,  as  the  Judge  men- 
tioned his  name,  he  folded  his  arms,  raised  his  long  dark  eyes, 
and  gazed  steadily  at  the  bench.  Did  he  know  that  he  was  the 
danger  in  the  case?  If  he  did  he  did  not  show  any  apprehen- 
sion. His  white  face,  typically  French,  with  its  rather  long 
nose,  slightly  flattened  temples,  faintly  cynical  and  ironic  lips 
and  small  but  obstinate  chin,  was  almost  sinister  in  its  com- 
plete immobility. 

"  He's  certainly  a  corrupt  beast,"  Dion  said  to  himself. 
"  But  as  certainly  he's  an  interesting,  clever,  knowledgeable 
beast." 

Dumeny's  very  thick,  glossy,  and  slightly  undulating  dark 
hair,  growing  closely  round  his  low  forehead,  helped  to  make 
him  almost  romantically  handsome,  although  his  features  were 
rather  irregular.  His  white  ears  were  abnormally  small,  Dion 
noticed. 

The  Judge  went  with  cold  minuteness  into  every  detail  of 
Dumeny's  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Clarke  that  had  been  revealed  in 
the  trial,  and  dwelt  on  the  link  of  music  which,  it  was  said,  had 
held  them  together. 

"  Music  stimulates  the  passions,  and  may,  in  highly  sensi- 
tive persons,  generate  impulses  not  easy  to  control,  provided 
that  the  situation  in  which  such  persons  find  themselves,  when 
roused  and  stirred,  is  propitious.  It  has  been  given  in  evi- 
dence that  Monsieur  Dumeny  frequently  played  and  sang  to  the 
respondent  till  late  in  the  night  in  the  pavilion  which  has  been 
described  to  you.  You  have  seen  Monsieur  Dumeny  in  the  box, 
and  can  judge  for  yourselves  whether  he  was  a  man  likely  to 
avail  himself  of  any  advantage  his  undoubted  talents  may  have 
given  him  with  a  highly  artistic  and  musical  woman." 

There  was  nothing  striking  in  the  words,  but  to  Dion  the 
Judge's  voice  seemed  slightly  changed  as  it  uttered  the  last  sen- 
tence. Surely  a  frigid  severity  had  crept  into  it,  surely  it  was 
colored  with  a  faint,  but  definite,  contempt.  Several  of  the  jury 


ECHO  169 

stared  narrowly  at  Aristide  Dumeny,  and  the  foreman,  with  a 
care  and  precision  almost  ostentatious,  took  a  note. 

The  Judge  continued  his  analysis  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  intimacy 
with  Dumeny.  He  was  scrupulously  fair;  he  gave  full  weight 
to  the  mutual  attraction  which  may  be  born  out  of  common 
intellectual  tastes  —  an  attraction  possibly  quite  innocent,  quite 
free  from  desire  of  anything  but  food  for  the  brain,  the  sub- 
tler emotions,  and  the  soul  "  if  you  like  to  call  it  so,  gentle- 
men." But,  somehow,  he  left  upon  the  mind  of  Dion,  and  prob- 
ably upon  the  minds  of  many  others,  an  impression  that  he,  the 
Judge,  was  doubtful  as  to  the  sheer  intellectuality  of  Monsieur 
Dumeny,  was  not  convinced  that  he  had  reached  that  condition 
of  moral  serenity  and  purification  in  which  a  rare  woman  can  be 
happily  regarded  as  a  sort  of  disembodied  spirit. 

When  the  Judge  at  length  finished  with  Dumeny  and  Du- 
meny's  relations  with  Mrs.  Clarke,  Dion  felt  very  anxious 
about  the  verdict.  The  Judge  had  not  succeeded  in  making 
him  believe  that  Mrs.  Clarke  was  a  guilty  woman,  but  he  feared 
that  the  jury  had  been  made  doubtful.  It  was  evident  to  him 
that  the  Judge  had  a  bad  opinion  of  Dumeny,  and  had  con- 
veyed his  opinion  to  the  jury.  Was  the  unwisdom  of  Mrs. 
Clarke  to  prove  her  undoing?  Esme  Darlington  was  pulling 
his  ducal  beard  almost  nervously.  A  faint  hum  went  through 
the  densely-packed  court.  Mrs.  Chetwinde  moved  and  used 
her  fan  for  a  moment.  Dion  did  not  dare  to  look  at  Guy 
Daventry.  He  was  realizing,  with  a  sort  of  painful  sharpness, 
how  great  a  change  a  verdict  against  Mrs.  Clarke  must  make 
in  her  life. 

Her  boy,  perhaps,  probably  indeed,  would  be  taken  from 
her.  She  had  only  spoken  to  him  casually  about  her  boy,  but 
he  hid  felt  that  the  casual  reference  did  not  mean  that  she 
had  a  careless  heart.  The  woman  whose  hand  had  held  his 
for  a  moment  would  be  tenacious  in  love.  He  felt  sure  of  that, 
and  sure  that  she  loved  her  naughty  boy  with  a  strong  vitality. 

When  the  Judge  had  finished  his  task  and  the  jury  retired  to 
consider  their  verdict,  it  was  past  four  o'clock. 

"What  do  you  think?  "  Dion  said  in  a  low  voice  to  Mrs. 
Chetwinde. 

"  About  the  summing-up  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  has  left  things  very  much  as  I  expected.  Any  danger 
there  is  lies  in  Monsieur  Dumeny." 


170  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  stayed  with  Cynthia  once  in  Constantinople. 
He  took  us  about." 

She  made  no  further  comment  on  Monsieur  Dumeny. 

"  I  wonder  whether  the  jury  will  be  away  long?  "  Dion  said, 
after  a  moment. 

"  Probably.  I  shan't  be  at  all  surprised  if  they  can't  agree. 
Then  there  will  be  another  trial." 

"How  appalling!" 

"  Yes,  it  wouldn't  be  very  nice  for  Cynthia." 

"I  can't  help  wishing " 

He  paused,  hesitating. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Chetwinde,  looking  about  the  court. 

"  I  can't  help  wishing  Mrs.  Clarke  hadn't  been  unconven- 
tional in  quite  such  a  public  way." 

A  faint  smile  dawned  and  faded  on  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  lips 
and  in  her  pale  eyes. 

"  The  public  method's  often  the  safest  in  the  end,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

Then  she  nodded  to  Esme  Darlington,  who  presently  got  up 
and  managed  to  make  his  way  to  them.  He,  too,  thought  the 
jury  would  probably  disagree,  and  considered  the  summing-up 
rather  unfavorable  to  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  People  who  live  in  the  diplomatic  world  live  in  a  whisper- 
ing gallery,"  he  said,  bending  down,  speaking  in  an  under- 
voice  and  lifting  and  lowering  his  eyebrows.  "  I  told  Cynthia 
so  when  she  married.  I  ventured  to  give  her  the  benefit  of 
my  —  if  I  may  say  so  —  long  and  intimate  knowledge  of  diplo- 
matic life  and  diplomatists.  I  said  to  her,  '  Remember  you 
will  always  be  under  observation.'  Ah,  well  —  one  can  only 
hope  the  jury  will  take  the  right  view.  But  how  can  we 
expect  British  shopkeepers,  fruit  brokers,  cigar  merchants,  and 
so  forth  to  understand  a  —  really,  one  can  only  say  —  a  wild 
nature  like  Cynthia's?  It's  a  wild  mind  —  I'd  say  this  before 
her! — in  an  innocent  body,  just  that." 

He  pulled  almost  distractedly  at  his  beard  with  bony  fin- 
gers, and  repeated  plaintively: 

"  A  wild  mind  in  an  innocent  body  —  h'm,  ha!  " 

"If  only  Mr.  Grundy  can  be  brought  to  comprehension  of 
such  a  phenomenon!  "  murmured  Mrs.  Chetwinde. 

It  was  obvious  to  Dion  that  his  two  friends  feared  for  the 
result. 


ECHO  171 

The  Judge  had  left  the  bench.  An  hour  passed  by,  and 
the  chime  of  a  clock  striking  five  dropped  down  coolly,  almost 
frostily,  to  the  hot  and  curious  crowd.  Mrs.  Clarke  sat  very 
still.  Esme  Darlington  had  returned  to  his  place  beside  her, 
and  she  spoke  to  him  now  and  then.  Hadi  Bey  wiped  his 
handsome  rounded  brown  forehead  with  a  colored  silk  handker- 
chief; and  Aristide  Dumeny,  with  half-closed  eyes,  ironically 
examined  the  crowd,  whispered  to  a  member  of  his  Embassy 
who  had  accompanied  him  into  court,  folded  his  arms  and 
sat  looking  down.  Beadon  Clarke's  face  was  rigid,  and  a  fierce 
red,  like  the  red  of  a  flush  of  shame,  was  fixed  on  his  cheeks. 
His  mother  had  pulled  a  thick  black  veil  with  a  pattern  down 
over  her  face,  and  was  fidgeting  perpetually  with  a  chain  of 
small  moonstones  set  in  gold  which  hung  from  her  throat  to  her 
waist.  Daventry,  blinking  and  twitching,  examined  documents, 
used  his  handkerchief,  glanced  at  his  watch,  hitched  his  gown 
up  on  his  shoulders,  looked  at  Mrs.  Clarke  and  looked  away. 

Uneasiness,  like  a  monster,  seemed  crouching  in  the  court  as 
in  a  lair. 

At  a  quarter-past  five,  the  Judge  returned  to  the  bench.  He 
had  received  a  communication  from  the  jury,  who  filed  in,  to 
say,  through  their  foreman,  that  they  could  not  agree  upon  a 
verdict.  A  parley  took  place  between  the  foreman  and  the 
Judge,  who  made  inquiry  about  their  difficulties,  answered  two 
questions,  and  finally  dismissed  them  to  further  deliberations, 
urging  them  strongly  to  try  to  arrive  at  an  unanimous  con- 
clusion. 

"  I  am  willing  to  stay  here  till  nightfall,"  he  said,  in  a  loud 
and  almost  menacing  voice,  "  if  there  is  any  chance  of  a  ver- 
dict." 

The  jury,  looking  weary,  harassed  and  very  hot,  once  more 
disappeared,  the  Judge  left  the  bench,  and  the  murmuring  crowd 
settled  down  to  another  period  of  waiting. 

To  Dion  it  seemed  that  a  great  tragedy  was  impending.  Al- 
ready Mrs.  Clarke  had  received  a  blow.  The  fact  that  the  jury 
had  publicly  announced  their  disagreement  would  be  given  out 
to  all  the  world  by  the  newspapers,  and  must  surely  go  against 
Mrs.  Clarke  even  if  she  got  a  verdict  ultimately. 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  still?  "  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Chetwinde. 

"  Oh,  yes.  As  I  told  you,  Cynthia  always  manages  to  get 
what  she  wants." 


172  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  shouldn't  think  she  can  ever  have  wanted  anything  so 
much  as  she  wants  the  right  verdict  to-day." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  Mrs.  Chetwinde  replied,  with  a  rather 
disconcerting  dryness. 

She  was  using  her  fan  slowly  and  monotonously,  as  if,  per- 
haps, she  were  trying  to  make  her  mind  calm  by  the  repetition 
of  a  physical  act. 

"  I'm  sorry  the  foreman  said  they  couldn't  agree,"  Dion  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper.  "  Even  if  the  verdict  is  for  Mrs.  Clarke, 
I'm  afraid  that  will  go  against  her." 

"  If  she  wins  she  wins,  and  it's  all  right.  Cynthia's  not  the 
sort  of  woman  who  cares  much  what  the  world  thinks.  The 
only  thing  that  really  matters  is  what  the  world  does;  and  if 
she  gets  the  verdict  the  world  won't  do  anything  —  except  laugh 
at  Beadon  Clarke." 

A  loud  buzz  of  conversation  rose  from  the  court.  Pres- 
ently the  light  began  to  fade,  and  the  buzz  faded  with  it;  then 
some  lights  were  turned  on,  and  there  was  a  crescendo  of  voices. 
It  was  possible  to  see  more  clearly  the  multitude  of  faces,  all 
of  them  hot,  nearly  all  of  them  excited  and  expressive.  A 
great  many  people  were  standing,  packed  closely  together  and 
looking  obstinate  in  their  determined  curiosity.  Most  of  them 
were  either  staring  at,  or  were  trying  to  stare  at  Mrs.  Clarke, 
who  was  now  talking  to  her  solicitor.  Esme  Darlington  was 
eating  a  meat  lozenge  and  frowning,  evidently  discomposed  by 
the  jury's  dilemma.  Lady  Ermyntrude  Clarke  had  lifted  her 
veil  and  was  whispering  eagerly  to  her  son,  bending  her  head, 
and  emphasizing  her  remarks  with  excited  gestures  which 
seemed  to  suggest  the  energy  of  one  already  uplifted  by  triumph. 
Beadon  Clarke  listened  with  the  passivity  of  a  man  encom- 
passed by  melancholy,  and  sunk  deep  in  the  abyss  of  shame. 
Aristide  Dumeny  was  reading  a  letter  which  he  held  with  long- 
fingered,  waxen-white  hands  very  near  to  his  narrow  dark 
eyes.  His  close-growing  thick  hair  looked  more  glossy  now 
that  there  was  artificial  light  in  the  court;  from  a  distance  its 
undulations  were  invisible,  and  it  resembled  a  cap  of  some 
heavy  and  handsome  material  drawn  carefully  down  over  his 
head.  Hadi  Bey  retained  his  vivid,  alert  and  martial  de- 
meanor. He  was  twisting  his  mustaches  with  a  muscular  brown 
hand,  not  nervously,  but  with  a  careless  and  almost  a  lively 
air.  Many  women  gazed  at  him  as  if  hypnotized;  they  found 
the  fez  very  alluring.  It  carried  their  thoughts  to  the  East; 
it  made  them  feel  that  the  romance  of  the  East  was  not  very 


ECHO  173 

far  from  them.  Some  of  them  wished  it  very  near,  and  thought 
of  husbands  in  silk  hats,  bowlers,  and  flat  caps  of  Harris  tweed 
with  the  dawning  of  a  dull  distaste.  The  woman  just  behind 
Dion  was  talking  busily  to  her  neighbor.  Dion  heard  her  say: 

"  Some  women  always  manage  to  have  a  good  time.  I  wish 
I  was  one  of  them.  Dick  is  a  dear,  but  still "  She  whis- 
pered for  a  minute  or  two;  then  out  came  her  voice  with,  "  There 
must  be  great  chances  for  a  woman  in  the  diplomatic  world. 
I  knew  a  girl  who  married  an  attache  and  went  to  Bucharest. 

You  can  have  no  idea  what  the  Roumanians "  whisper, 

whisper,  whisper. 

That  woman  was  envying  Mrs.  Clarke,  it  seemed,  but  surely 
not  envying  her  innocence.  Dion  began  to  be  conscious  of 
faint  breaths  from  the  furnace  of  desire,  and  suddenly  he  saw 
the  gaunt  and  sickly-smiling  head  of  hypocrisy,  like  the  flat 
and  tremulously  moving  head  of  a  serpent,  lifted  up  above 
the  court.  Only  a  little  way  off  Robin,  now  better,  but  still 
"  not  quite  the  thing,"  was  lying  in  his  cozy  cot  in  the  nursery 
of  No.  5  Little  Market  Street,  with  Rosamund  sitting  beside 
him.  The  window  to-day,  for  once,  would  probably  be  shut 
as  a  concession  to  Robin's  indisposition.  A  lamp  would  be 
burning  perhaps.  In  fancy,  Dion  saw  Rosamund's  head  lit 
up  by  a  gentle  glow,  her  hair  giving  out  little  gleams  of  gold, 
as  if  fire  were  caught  in  its  meshes.  How  was  it  that  her  head 
always  suggested  to  him  purity;  and  not  only  her  purity  but 
the  purity  of  all  sweet,  sane  and  gloriously  vigorous  women  — 
those  women  who  tread  firmly,  nobly,  in  the  great  central  paths 
of  life?  He  did  not  know,  but  he  was  certain  that  the  head  of 
no  impure,  of  no  lascivious  woman  could  ever  look  like  his 
Rosamund's.  That  nursery,  holding  little  Robin  and  his 
mother  in  the  lamplight,  was  near  to  this  crowded  court,  but  it 
was  very  far  away  too,  as  far  as  heaven  is  from  hell.  It  would 
be  good,  presently,  to  go  back  to  it. 

Chime  after  chime  dropped  down  frostily  into  the  almost 
rancid  heat  of  the  court.  Time  was  sending  its  warning  that 
night  was  coming  to  London. 

An  epidemic  of  fidgeting  and  of  coughing  seized  the  crowd, 
which  was  evidently  beginning  to  feel  the  stinging  whip  of  an 
intense  irritation. 

"  What  on  earth,"  said  the  voice  of  a  man,  expressing  the 
thought  which  bound  all  these  brains  together,  "  what  on  earth 
can  the  jury  be  up  to?  " 

Surely  by  now  everything  for  and  against  Mrs.  Clarke  must 


174  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

have  been  discussed  ad  nauseam.  Only  the  vainest  of  repeti- 
tions could  be  occupying  the  time  of  the  jury.  People  began 
positively  to  hate  those  twelve  uninteresting  men,  torn  from  their 
dull  occupations  to  decide  a  woman's  fate.  Even  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde  showed  vexation. 

"  This  is  really  becoming  ridiculous,"  she  murmured. 
"  Even  twelve  fools  should  know  when  to  give  their  folly  a 
rest." 

"  I  suppose  there  must  be  one  or  two  holding  out  against  all 
argument  and  persuasion.  Don't  you  think  so?  "  said  Dion,  al- 
most morosely. 

"  I  dare  say.  I  know  a  great  deal  about  individual  fools, 
but  very  little  about  them  in  dozens.  The  heat  is  becoming  un- 
bearable." 

She  sighed  deeply  and  moved  in  her  seat,  opening  and  shut- 
ting her  fan. 

"  She  must  be  enduring  torment,"  muttered  Dion. 

"Yes;  even  Cynthia  can  hardly  be  proof  against  this  intol- 
erable delay." 

Another  dropping  down  of  chimes:  eight  o'clock!  A  long 
murmur  went  through  the  crowd.  Some  one  said:  "They're 
coming  at  last." 

Every  one  moved.  Instinctively  Dion  leant  forward  to  look 
at  Mrs.  Clarke.  He  felt  very  much  excited  and  nervous,  al- 
most as  if  his  own  fate  were  about  to  be  decided.  As  he 
looked  he  saw  Mrs.  Clarke  draw  herself  up  till  she  seemed  taller 
than  usual.  She  had  a  pair  of  gloves  in  her  lap,  and  she  now 
began  to  pull  one  of  these  gloves  on,  slowly  and  carefully,  as 
if  she  were  thinking  about  what  she  was  doing.  The  jury  filed 
in  looking  feverish,  irritable  and  battered.  Three  or  four  of 
them  showed  piteous  and  injured  expressions.  Two  others  had 
the  peculiar  look  of  obstinate  men  who  have  been  giving  free 
rein  to  their  vice,  indulging  in  an  orgy  of  what  they  call  will- 
power. Their  faces  were,  at  the  same  time,  implacable  and  ri- 
diculous, but  they  walked  impressively.  The  Judge  was  sent 
for.  Two  or  three  minutes  elapsed  before  he  came  in.  During 
those  minutes  there  was  no  coughing  and  scarcely  any  moving. 
The  silence  in  the  court  was  vital.  During  it,  Dion  stared  hard 
at  the  jury  and  strove  to  read  the  verdict  in  their  faces.  Natu- 
rally he  failed.  No  message  came  from  them  to  him. 

The  Judge  came  back  to  the  bench,  looking  weary  and  harsh. 

"  Do  you  find  that  the  respondent  has  been  guilty  or  not 


ECHO  175 

guilty  of  misconduct  with  the  co-respondent,  Hadi  Bey?  "  said 
the  clerk  of  the  court. 

"  We  find  that  the  respondent  has  not  been  guilty  of  miscon- 
duct with  Hadi  Bey." 

After  a  slight  pause,  speaking  in  a  louder  voice  than  before, 
the  clerk  of  the  court  said: 

"  Do  you  find  that  the  respondent  has  been  guilty  or  not 
guilty  of  misconduct  with  the  co-respondent,  Aristide  Du- 
meny  ?  " 

"  We  find  that  the  respondent  has  not  been  guilty  of  miscon- 
duct with  Aristide  Dumeny." 

Dion  saw  the  Judge  frown. 

Slight  applause  broke  out  in  the  court,  but  it  was  fitful  and 
uncertain  and  almost  immediately  died  away. 

Mrs.  Chetwinde  said  in  a  low  voice,  almost  as  if  to  herself : 

"Cynthia  has  got  what  she  wants  —  again." 

Then,  after  the  formalities,  the  crowd  was  in  movement;  the 
weary  and  excited  people,  their  curiosity  satisfied  at  last,  began 
to  melt  away;  the  young  barristers  hurried  out,  eagerly  dis- 
cussing the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  case;  and  Mrs.  Clarke's 
adherents  made  their  way  to  her  to  offer  her  their  congratula- 
tions. 

Daventry  was  triumphant.  He  shook  his  client's  hand,  held 
it,  shook  it  again,  and  could  scarcely  find  words  to  express  his 
excitement  and  delight.  Even  Esme  Darlington's  usual  care- 
ful serenity  was  for  the  moment  obscured  by  an  emotion  emi- 
nently human,  as  he  spoke  into  Mrs.  Clarke's  ear  the  following 
words  of  a  ripe  wisdom: 

"  Cynthia,  my  dear,  after  this  do  take  my  advice  and  live  as 
others  live.  In  a  conventional  world  conventionality  is  the  line 
of  least  resistance.  Don't  turn  to  the  East  unless  the  whole 
congregation  does  it." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  your  self-sacrifice  in  facing  the  crowd 
with  me  to-day,  dear  Esme,"  was  her  answer.  "  I  know  how 
much  it  cost  you." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  for  an  old  friend  —  h'm,  ha!  " 

His  voice  failed  in  his  beard.  He  drew  forth  a  beautiful  In- 
dian handkerchief  —  a  gift  from  his  devoted  friend  the  Vice- 
roy of  India  —  and  passed  it  over  a  face  which  looked  unusually 
old. 

Mrs.  Chetwinde  said: 

"  I  expected  you  to  win,  Cynthia.     It  was  stupid  of  the  jury 


176  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  be  so  slow  in  arriving  at  the  inevitable  verdict.  But  stupid 
people  are  as  lethargic  as  silly  ones  are  swift.  How  shall  we 
get  to  the  carriage  ?  We  can't  go  out  by  the  public  exit.  I  hear 
the  crowd  is  quite  enormous,  and  won't  move.  We  must  try  a 
side  door,  if  there  is  one." 

Then  Dion  held  Mrs.  Clarke's  hand,  and  looked  down  at  her 
haggard  but  still  self-possessed  face.  It  astonished  him  to  find 
that  she  preserved  her  earnestly  observant  expression. 

"  I'm  very  glad,"  was  all  he  found  to  say. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  perhaps  slightly  more 
husky  than  usual.  "  I  mean  to  stay  on  in  London  for  some 
time.  I've  got  lots  of  things  to  settle  " —  she  paused  — "  before 
I  go  back  to  Constantinople." 

"  But  are  you  really  going  back?  " 

"  Of  course  —  eventually." 

Her  voice,  nearly  drowned  by  the  noise  of  people  departing 
from  the  court,  sounded  to  him  implacable. 

"  You  heard  the  hope  of  the  Court  that  my  husband  and  I 
would  come  together  again?  Of  course  we  never  shall.  But 
I'm  sure  I  shall  get  hold  of  Jimmy.  I  know  my  husband  won't 
keep  him  from  me."  She  stared  at  his  shoulders.  "  I  want  you 
to  help  me  with  Jimmy's  physical  education  —  I  mean  by  get- 
ting him  to  that  instructor  you  spoke  of." 

"  To  be  sure  —  Jenkins,"  he  said,  marveling  at  her. 

"  Jenkins  —  exactly.  And  I  hope  it  will  be  possible  for  your 
wife  and  me  to  meet  soon,  now  there's  nothing  against  it  owing 
to  the  verdict." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Do  tell  her,  and  see  if  we  can  arrange  it." 

Dumeny  at  this  moment  passed  close  to  them  with  his  friend 
on  his  way  out  of  court.  His  eyes  rested  on  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  a 
faint  smile  went  over  his  face  as  he  slightly  raised  his  hat. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  to  Dion. 

And  she  turned  to  Sir  John  Addington. 

Dion  made  his  way  slowly  out  into  the  night,  thinking  of  the 
unwise  life  and  of  the  smile  on  the  lips  of  Dumeny. 


ECHO  177 


CHAPTER  VI 

THAT  summer  saw,  among  other  events  of  moment,  the 
marriage  of  Beatrice  and  Daventry,  the  definite  estab- 
lishment of  Robin  as  a  power  in  his  world,  and  the  be- 
ginning of  one  of  those  noiseless  contests  which  seem  peculiar  to 
women,  and  which  are  seldom,  if  ever,  fully  comprehended  in 
all  their  bearings  by  men. 

Beatrice,  as  she  wished  it,  had  a  very  quiet,  indeed  quite  a 
hole-and-corner  wedding  in  a  Kensington  church,  of  which  no- 
body had  ever  heard  till  she  was  married  in  it,  to  the  great  sur- 
prise of  its  vicar,  its  verger,  and  the  decent  widow  woman  who 
swept  its  pews  for  a  moderate  wage.  For  their  honeymoon  she 
and  Daventry  disappeared  to  the  Garden  of  France  to  make  a 
leisurely  tour  through  the  Chateaux  country. 

Meanwhile  Robin,  according  to  his  nurse,  "  was  growing 
something  wonderful,  and  improving  with  his  looks  like  noth- 
ing I  ever  see  before,  and  me  with  babies  ever  since  I  can  re- 
member anything  as  you  may  say,  a  dear!  "  His  immediate 
circle  of  wondering  admirers  was  becoming  almost  extensive, 
including,  as  it  did,  not  only  his  mother  and  father,  his  nurse, 
and  the  four  servants  at  No.  5  Little  Market  Street,  but  also 
Mrs.  Leith  senior,  Bruce  Evelin  —  now  rather  a  lonely  man  — 
and  Mr.  Thrush  of  John's  Court  near  the  Edgware  Road. 

At  this  stage  of  his  existence,  Rosamund  loved  Robin  rea- 
sonably but  with  a  sort  of  still  and  holy  concentration,  which 
gradually  impinged  upon  Dion  like  a  quiet  force  which  spreads 
subtly,  affecting  those  in  its  neighborhood.  There  was  in  it 
something  mystical  and,  remembering  her  revelation  to  him  of 
the  desire  to  enter  the  religious  life  which  had  formerly  threat- 
ened to  dominate  her,  Dion  now  fully  realized  the  truth  of  a 
remark  once  made  by  Mrs.  Chetwinde  about  his  wife.  She  had 
called  Rosamund  "  a  radiant  mystic." 

Now  changes  were  blossoming  in  Rosamund  like  new  flow- 
ers coming  up  in  a  garden,  and  one  of  these  flowers  was  a  beau- 
tiful selfishness.  So  Dion  called  it  to  himself  but  never  to 

icrs.  It  was  a  selfishness  surely  deliberate  and  purposeful 
—  an  unselfish  selfishness,  if  such  a  thing  can  be.  Can  the 
ideal  mother,  Dion  asked  himself,  be  wholly  without  it?  All 
that  she  is,  perhaps,  reacts  upon  the  child  of  her  bosom,  the 
child  who  looks  up  to  her  as  its  Providence.  And  what  she 
is  must  surely  be  at  least  partly  conditioned  by  what  she  does 


i;8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  by  all  her  way  of  life.  The  child  is  her  great  concern, 
and  therefore  she  must  guard  sedulously  all  the  gates  by  which 
possible  danger  to  the  child  might  strive  to  enter  in.  This 
was  what  Rosamund  had  evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  do, 
was  beginning  to  do.  Dion  compared  her  with  many  of  the 
women  of  London  who  have  children  and  who,  nevertheless, 
continue  to  lead  haphazard,  frivolous,  utterly  thoughtless  lives, 
caring  apparently  little  more  for  the  moral  welfare  of  their 
children  than  for  the  moral  welfare  of  their  Pekinese.  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  a  hatred  of  "  things  with  wings  growing  out  of 
their  shoulders."  Rosamund  would  probably  never  wish  their 
son  to  have  wings  growing  out  of  his  shoulders,  but  if  he  had 
little  wings  on  his  sandals,  like  the  Hermes,  perhaps  she  would 
be  very  happy.  With  winged  sandals  he  might  take  an  occa- 
sional flight  to  the  gods.  Hermes,  of  course,  was  really  a  ras- 
cal, many-sided,  and,  like  most  many-sided  people  and  gods, 
capable  of  insincerity  and  even  of  cunning;  but  the  Hermes 
of  Olympia,  their  Hermes,  was  the  messenger  purged,  by  Praxi- 
teles, of  every  bit  of  dross  —  noble,  manly,  pure,  serene.  Lit- 
tle Robin  bore  at  present  no  resemblance  to  the  Hermes,  or 
indeed  —  despite  the  nurse's  statements  —  to  any  one  else  ex- 
cept another  baby;  but  already  it  was  beginning  mysteriously 
to  be  possible  to  foresee  the  great  advance  —  long  clothes  to 
short  clothes,  short  clothes  to  knickerbockers,  knickerbockers  to 
trousers.  Robin  would  be  a  boy,  a  youth,  a  man,  and  what 
Rosamund  was  might  make  all  the  difference  in  that  Trinity. 
The  mystic  who  enters  into  religion  dedicates  her  life  to  God. 
Rosamund  dedicated  hers  to  her  boy.  It  was  the  same  thing 
with  a  difference.  And  as  the  mystic  is  often  a  little  selfish 
in  shutting  out  cries  of  the  world  —  cries  sometimes  for  human 
aid  which  can  scarcely  be  referred  from  the  fellow-creature  to 
God  —  so  Rosamund  was  a  little  selfish,  guided  by  the  unusual 
temperament  which  was  housed  within  her.  She  shut  out  some 
of  the  cries  that  she  might  hear  Robin's  the  better. 

Robin's  sudden  attack  of  illness  during  Mrs.  Clarke's  ordeal 
had  been  overcome  and  now  seemed  almost  forgotten.  Rosa- 
mund had  encountered  the  small  fierce  shock  of  it  with  an  ap- 
parent calmness  and  self-possession  which  at  the  time  had 
astonished  Dion  and  roused  his  admiration.  A  baby  often 
comes  hardly  into  the  world  and  slips  out  of  it  with  the  terri- 
ble ease  of  things  fated  to  far-off  destinies.  During  one  night 
Robin  had  certainly  been  in  danger.  Perhaps  that  danger  had 
taught  Rosamund  exactly  how  much  her  child  meant  to  her. 


ECHO  179 

Dion  did  not  know  this;  he  suspected  it  because,  since  Robin's 
illness,  he  had  become  much  more  sharply  aware  of  the  depth 
of  mother-love  in  Rosamund,  of  the  hovering  wings  that  guarded 
the  nestling.  That  efficient  guarding  implies  shutting  out  was 
presently  to  be  brought  home  to  him  with  a  definiteness  leading 
to  embarrassment. 

The  little  interruptions  a  baby  brings  into  the  lives  of  a  mar- 
ried couple  were  setting  in.  Dion  was  sure  that  Rosamund 
never  thought  of  them  as  interruptions.  When  Robin  grew 
much  older,  when  he  was  in  trousers,  and  could  play  games,  and 
appreciate  his  father's  prowess  and  God-given  capacities  in 
the  gymnasium,  on  the  tennis  lawn,  over  the  plowland  among 
the  partridges,  Dion's  turn  would  come.  Meanwhile,  did  he 
actually  love  Robin?  He  thought  he  did.  He  was  greatly 
interested  in  Robin,  was  surprised  by  his  abrupt  manifestations 
and  almost  hypnotized  by  his  outbursts  of  wrath;  when  Robin 
assumed  his  individual  look  of  mild  inquiry,  Dion  was  touched, 
and  had  a  very  tender  feeling  at  his  heart.  No  doubt  all  this 
meant  love.  But  Dion  fully  realized  that  his  feeling  towards 
Robin  did  not  compare  with  Rosamund's.  It  was  less  intense, 
less  profound,  less  of  the  very  roots  of  being.  His  love  for 
Robin  was  a  shadow  compared  with  the  substance  of  his  love 
for  Rosamund.  How  would  Rosamund's  two  loves,  for  him 
and  for  Toby,  compare?  He  began  to  wonder,  even  sometimes 
put  to  himself  the  questions,  "  Suppose  Robin  were  to  die,  how 
would  she  take  it?  And  how  would  she  take  it  if  I  were  to 
die?"  And  then,  of  course,  his  mind  sometimes  did  fool- 
ish things,  asked  questions  beginning  with,  "  Would  she 

rather ?"     He  remembered  his  talks  with  Rosamund  on 

the  Acropolis  —  talks  never  renewed  —  and  compared  the 
former  life  without  little  Robin,  with  the  present  life  pervaded 
gently,  or  vivaciously,  or  almost  furiously  by  little  Robin. 
Among  the  mountains  and  by  the  deep-hued  seas  of  Greece  he 
had  foreseen  and  wondered  about  Robin.  Now  Robin  was 
here;  the  great  change  was  accomplished.  Probably  Rosamund 
and  he,  Dion,  would  never  again  be  alone  with  their  love. 
Other  children,  perhaps,  would  come.  Even  if  they  did  not, 
Robin  would  pervade  their  lives,  in  long  clothes,  short  skirts, 
knickerbockers,  trousers.  He  might,  of  course,  some  day  choose 
a  profession  which  would  carry  him  to  some  distant  land:  to 
an  Indian  jungle  or  a  West  African  swamp.  But  by  that  time 
his  parents  would  be  middle-aged  people.  And  how  would 
their  love  be  then?  Dion  knew  that  now,  when  Rosamund  and 


i8o  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

he  were  still  young,  both  less  than  thirty,  he  would  give  a 
hundred  Robins,  even  if  they  were  all  his  own  Robins,  to  keep 
his  one  Rosamund.  That  was  probably  quite  natural  now, 
for  Robin  was  really  rather  inexpressive  in  the  midst  of  his 
most  unbridled  demonstrations.  When  he  was  calm  and  blew 
bubbles  he  had  charm;  when  he  was  red  and  furious  he  had  a 
certain  power;  when  he  sneezed  he  had  pathos;  when  he  slept 
the  serenity  of  him  might  be  felt;  but  he  would  mean  very 
much  more  presently.  He  would  grow,  and  surely  his  father's 
love  for  him  would  grow.  But  could  it  ever  grow  to  the  height, 
the  flowering  height,  of  the  husband's  love  for  Rosamund? 
Dion  already  felt  certain  that  it  never  could,  that  it  was  his 
destiny  to  be  husband  rather  than  parent,  the  eternal  lover 
rather  than  the  eternal  father.  Rosamund's  destiny  was  per- 
haps to  be  the  eternal  mother.  She  had  never  been  exactly  a 
lover.  Perhaps  her  remarkable  and  beautiful  purity  of  dispo- 
sition had  held  her  back  from  being  that.  Force,  energy,  vi- 
tality, strong  feelings,  she  had;  but  the  peculiar  something  in 
which  body  seems  mingled  with  soul,  in  which  soul  seems 
body  and  body  soul,  was  apparently  lacking  in  her.  Dion  had 
perhaps  never,  with  full  consciousness,  missed  that  element  in 
her  till  Robin  made  his  appearance;  but  Robin,  in  his  bubbling 
innocence,  and  almost  absurd  consciousness  of  himself  and  of 
others,  did  many  things  that  were  not  unimportant.  He  even 
had  the  shocking  impertinence  to  open  his  father's  eyes,  and  to 
show  him  truths  in  a  bright  light  —  truths  which,  till  now,  had 
remained  half-hidden  in  shadow;  babyhood  enlightened  youth, 
the  youth  persisting  hardily  because  it  had  never  sown  wild 
oats.  Robin  did  not  know  that;  he  knew,  in  fact,  scarcely  any- 
thing except  when  he  wanted  nourishment  and  when  he  desired 
repose.  He  also  knew  his  mother,  knew  her  mystically  and 
knew  her  greedily,  with  knowledge  which  seemed  of  God,  and 
with  an  awareness  whose  parent  was  perhaps  a  vital  appetite. 
At  other  people  he  gazed  and  bubbled  but  with  a  certain  in- 
fantile detachment,  though  his  nurse,  of  course,  declared  that 
she  had  never  known  a  baby  to  take  such  intelligent  notice  of 
all  created  things  in  its  neighborhood.  "  He  knows,"  she  as- 
severated, with  the  air  of  one  versed  in  the  mysteries,  "  he 
knows,  does  little  master,  who's  who  as  well  as  any  one,  and 
a  deal  better  than  some  that  prides  themselves  on  this  and  that, 
a  little  upsy-daisy-dear!  " 

Mrs.  Leith  senior  paid  him  occasional  visits,  which  Dion 
found  just  the  least  bit  trying.     Since  Omar  had  been  killed, 


ECHO  181 

Dion  had  felt  more  solicitous  about  his  mother,  who  had  defi- 
nitely refused  ever  to  have  another  dog.  If  he  had  been  al- 
lowed to  give  her  a  dog  he  would  have  felt  more  easy  about 
her,  despite  Beatrice's  quiet  statement  of  why  Omar  had  meant 
so  much.  As  he  might  not  do  that,  he  begged  his  mother  to 
come  very  often  to  Little  Market  Street  and  to  become  intimate 
with  Robin.  But  when  he  saw  her  with  Robin  he  was  gen- 
erally embarrassed,  although  she  was  obviously  enchanted  with 
that  gentleman,  for  whose  benefit  she  was  amazingly  prodigal 
ef  nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles.  It  was  a  pity,  he 
thought,  that  his  mother  was  at  moments  so  apparently  elab- 
orate. He  felt  her  elaboration  the  more  when  it  was  con- 
trasted with  the  transparent  simplicity  of  Rosamund.  Even 
Robin,  he  fancied,  was  at  moments  rather  astonished  by  it,  and 
perhaps  pushed  on  towards  a  criticism  at  present  beyond  the 
range  of  his  powers.  But  Mrs.  Leith's  complete  self-possession, 
even  when  immersed  in  the  intricacies  of  a  baby-language  to- 
tally unintelligible  to  her  son,  made  it  impossible  to  give  her 
a  hint  to  be  a  little  less  —  well,  like  herself  when  at  No.  5.  So 
he  resigned  himself  to  a  faint  discomfort  which  he  felt  sure  was 
shared  by  Rosamund,  although  neither  of  them  ever  spoke  of  it. 
But  they  never  discussed  his  mother,  and  always  assumed  that 
she  was  ideal  both  as  mother-in-law  and  grandmother.  She  was 
Robin's  godmother  and  had  given  him  delightful  presents. 
Bruce  Evelin  and  Daventry  were  his  godfathers. 

Bruce  Evelin  now  lived  alone  in  the  large  house  in  Great 
Cumberland  Place.  He  made  no  complaint  of  his  solitude, 
which  indeed  he  might  be  said  to  have  helped  to  bring  about 
by  his  effective,  though  speechless,  advocacy  of  Daventry's  de- 
sire. But  it  was  obvious  to  affectionate  eyes  that  he  some- 
times felt  rather  homeless,  and  that  he  was  happy  to  be  in  the 
little  Westminster  home  where  such  a  tranquil  domesticity 
reigned.  Dion  sometimes  felt  as  if  Bruce  Evelin  were  watch- 
ing over  that  home  in  a  wise  old  man's  way,  rather  as  Rosa- 
mund watched  over  Robin,  with  a  deep  and  still  concentration. 
Bruce  Evelin  had,  he  confessed,  "  a  great  feeling  "  for  Robin, 
whom  he  treated  with  quiet  common  sense  as  a  responsible  en- 
tity, bearing,  with  a  matchless  wisdom,  that  entity's  occasional 
lapses  from  decorum.  Once,  for  instance,  Robin  chose  Bruce 
Evelin's  arms  unexpectedly  as  a  suitable  place  to  be  sick  in, 
without  drawing  down  upon  himself  any  greater  condemnation 
than  a  quiet,  "  How  lucky  he  selected  a  godfather  as  his  re- 
ceptacle! " 


182  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

And  Mr.  Thrush  of  John's  Court?  One  evening,  when  he 
returned  home,  Dion  found  that  old  phenomenon  in  the  house 
paying  his  respects  to  Robin.  He  was  quite  neatly  dressed, 
and  wore  beneath  a  comparatively  clean  collar  a  wisp  of  black 
tie  that  was  highly  respectable,  though  his  top  hat,  deposited 
in  the  hall,  was  still  as  the  terror  that  walketh  in  darkness. 
His  poor  old  gray  eyes  were  pathetic,  and  his  long,  battered  old 
face  was  gently  benign;  but  his  nose,  fiery  and  tremendous  as 
ever,  still  made  proclamation  of  his  "  failing."  Dion  knew  that 
Mr.  Thrush  had  already  been  two  or  three  times  to  see  Robin, 
and  had  wondered  about  it  with  some  amusement.  "  Where 
will  your  cult  for  Mr.  Thrush  lead  you?"  he  had  laughingly 
said  to  Rosamund.  And  then  he  had  forgotten  "  the  phenome- 
non," as  he  sometimes  called  Mr.  Thrush.  But  now,  when  he 
actually  beheld  Mr.  Thrush  in  his  house,  seated  on  a  chair  in 
the  nursery,  with  purple  hands  folded  over  a  seedy,  but  carefully 
brushed,  black  coat,  he  genuinely  marveled. 

Mr.  Thrush  rose  up  at  his  entrance,  quite  unself-conscious 
and  self-possessed,  and  as  Dion,  concealing  his  surprise,  greeted 
the  visitor,  Rosamund,  who  was  showing  Robin,  remarked: 

"  Mr.  Thrush  has  great  ideas  on  hygiene,  Dion.  He  quite 
agrees  with  us  about  not  wrapping  children  in  cotton-wool." 

"  Your  conceptions  are  Doric,  too,  in  fact?  "  said  Dion  to 
Thrush,  in  the  slightly  rough  or  bluff  manner  which  he  now 
sometimes  assumed. 

"  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  exactly  that,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Thrush,  speaking  with  a  sort  of  gentleness  which  was  almost 
refined.  "  But  having  been  a  chemist  in  a  very  good  way  of 
business  —  just  off  Hanover  Square  —  during  the  best  years  of 
my  life,  I  have  my  views,  foolish  or  perhaps  the  reverse,  on  the 
question  of  infants.  My  motto,  so  far  as  I  have  one,  is,  Never 
cosset." 

He  turned  towards  Robin,  who,  from  his  mother's  arms,  sent 
him  a  look  of  mild  inquiry,  and  reiterated,  with  plaintive  empha- 
sis, "  Never  cosset!  " 

"There,  Dion!"  said  Rosamund,  with  a  delicious  air  of 
genial  appreciation  which  made  Mr.  Thrush  gently  glow. 

"  And  I'll  go  further,"  pursued  that  authority,  lifting  a  pur- 
ple hand  and  moving  his  old  head  to  give  emphasis  to  his  deliv- 
erance, "  I'll  go  further  even  than  that.  Having  retired  from 
the  pharmaceutical  brotherhood  I'll  say  this:  If  you  can  do  it, 
avoid  drugs.  Chemists  " —  he  leaned  forward  and  emphati- 


ECHO  183 

caKy  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper  — "  Chemists  alone 
know  what  harm  they  do." 

"  By  Jove,  though,  and  do  they?  "  said  Dion  heartily. 

"  Terrible,  sir,  terrible !  Some  people's  insides  that  I  know 
of  —  used  to  know  of,  perhaps  I  should  say  —  must  be  made 
of  iron  to  deal  with  all  the  medicines  they  put  into  'em.  Oh, 
keep  your  baby's  inside  free  from  all  such  abominations!  " 
(He  loomed  gently  over  Robin,  who  continued  to  stare  at  him 
with  an  expression  of  placid  interrogation.)  "Keep  it  away 
from  such  things  as  the  Sampson  Syrup,  Mother  Maybrick's 
infant  tablets,  Price's  purge  for  the  nursery,  Tinkler's  tone-up 
for  tiny  tots,  Ada  Lane's  pills  for  the  poppets,  and  above  and 
before  all,  from  Professor  Jeremiah  T.  Iplock's  '  What  baby 
wants  '  at  two-and-sixpence  the  bottle,  or  in  tabloid  form  for 
the  growing  child,  two-and-eight  the  box.  Keep  his  inside  clear 
of  all  such,  and  you'll  be  thankful,  and  he'll  bless  you  both  on 
his  bended  knees  when  he  comes  to  know  his  preservation." 

"  He'll  never  have  them,  Mr.  Thrush,"  said  Rosamund,  with 
a  sober  voice  and  twinkling  eyes.  "  Never." 

"  Bless  you,  ma'am,  for  those  beautiful  words.  And  now 
really  I  must  be  going." 

"  You'll  find  tea  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  Mr.  Thrush,  as 
usual,"  said  Rosamund. 

"  And  very  kind  of  you  to  have  it  there,  I'm  sure,  ma'am!  " 
the  old  gentleman  gallantly  replied  as  he  made  his  wavering 
adieux. 

At  the  door  he  turned  round  to  face  the  nursery  once  more, 
lifted  one  hand  in  a  manner  almost  apostolic,  and  uttered  the 
final  warning  "  Never  cosset!  "  Then  he  evaporated,  not  with- 
out a  sort  of  mossy  dignity,  and  might  be  heard  tremblingly  de- 
scending to  the  lower  regions. 

"Rose,  since  when  have  we  a  housekeeper's  room?"  asked 
Dion,  touching  Robin's  puckers  with  a  gentle  fore-finger. 

"  I  can't  call  it  the  servants'  hall  to  him,  poor  old  man.  And 
I  like  to  give  him  tea.  It  may  wean  him  from "  An  ex- 
pressive look  closed  the  sentence. 

That  night,  at  last,  Dion  drew  from  her  an  explanation  of 
her  Thrush  cult.  On  the  evening  when  Mr.  Thrush  had  res- 
cued her  in  the  fog,  as  they  walked  slowly  to  Great  Cumber- 
land Place,  he  had  told  her  something  of  his  history.  Rosa- 
mund had  a  great  art  in  drawing  from  people  the  story  of  their 
troubles  when  she  cared  to  do  so.  Her  genial  and  warm-hearted 
sympathy  was  an  almost  irresistible  lure.  Mr.  Thrush's  present 


184  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

fate  had  been  brought  about  by  a  tragic  circumstance,  the 
death  of  his  only  child,  a  girl  of  twelve,  who  had  been  run  over 
by  an  omnibus  in  Oxford  Circus  and  killed  on  the  spot.  Left 
alone  with  a  peevish,  nagging  wife  who  had  never  suited  him, 
or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  studied  "  him  in  any  way,  he  had  gone 
down  the  hill  till  he  had  landed  near  the  bottom.  All  his  love 
had  been  fastened  on  his  child,  and  sorrow  had  not  strength- 
ened but  had  embittered  him. 

"  But  to  me  he  seems  a  gentle  old  thing,"  Dion  said,  when 
Rosamund  told  him  this. 

"  He's  very  bitter  inside,  poor  old  chap,  but  he  looks  upon  us 
as  friends.  He's  taken  sorrow  the  wrong  way.  That's  how  it 
is.  I'm  trying  to  get  him  to  look  at  things  differently,  and 
Robin's  helping  me." 

"Already!"  said  Dion,  smiling,  yet  touched  by  her  serious 
face. 

"  Yes.  He's  an  unconscious  agent.  Poor  old  Mr.  Thrush 
has  never  learnt  the  lesson  of  our  dear  Greek  tombs:  xaVe- 
He  hasn't  been  able  to  say  that  simply  and  beautifully,  leaving 
all  in  other  hands.  And  so  he's  the  poor  old  wreck  we  know. 
I  want  to  get  him  out  of  it  if  I  can.  He  came  into  my  life  on 
a  night  of  destiny  too." 

But  she  explained  nothing  more.  And  she  left  Dion  won- 
dering just  how  she  would  receive  a  sorrow  such  as  had  over- 
taken Mr.  Thrush.  Would  she  be  able  to  submit  as  those  calm 
and  simple  figures  on  the  tombs  which  she  loved  appeared  to 
be  submitting?  Would  she  let  what  she  loved  pass  away  into 
the  shades  with  a  brave  and  noble,  "  Farewell  "?  Would  she 
take  the  hand  of  Sorrow,  that  hand  of  steel  and  ice,  as  one 
takes  the  hand  of  a  friend  —  stern,  terrible,  unfathomed,  never 
to  be  fathomed  in  this  world,  but  a  friend?  He  wondered,  but, 
loving  her  with  that  love  which  never  ceased  to  grow  within 
him,  he  prayed  that  he  might  never  know.  She  seemed  born  to 
shed  happiness  and  to  be  happy,  and  indeed  he  could  scarcely 
imagine  her  wretched. 

It  was  after  the  explanation  of  Mr.  Thrush's  exact  relation  to 
Rosamund  that  the  silent  contest  began  in  the  waning  summer, 
when  London  was  rather  arid,  and  even  the  Thames  looked  hot 
between  its  sluggish  banks  of  mud. 

After  the  trial  of  her  divorce  case  was  over,  Mrs.  Clarke  had 
left  London  and  gone  into  the  country  for  a  little  while,  to  rest 
in  a  small  house  possessed  by  Esme  Darlington  at  Hook  Green, 
a  fashionable  part  of  Surrey.  At,  and  round  about,  Hook 


ECHO  185 

Green  various  well-known  persons  played  occasionally  at  be- 
ing rural;  it  suited  Mrs.  Clarke  very  well  to  stay  for  a  time 
among  them  under  Mr.  Darlington's  ample  and  eminently  re- 
spectable wing.  She  hated  being  careful,  but  even  she,  admon- 
ished by  Mr.  Darlington,  realized  that  immediately  after  emerg- 
ing from  the  shadow  of  a  great  scandal  she  had  better  play 
propriety  for  a  time.  It  really  must  be  "  playing,"  for,  as  had 
been  proved  at  the  trial,  she  was  a  thoroughly  proper  person 
who  hadn't  troubled  to  play  hitherto.  So  she  rested  at  Hook 
Green,  till  the  season  was  over,  with  Miss  Bainbridge,  an  old 
cousin  of  Esme's;  and  Esme  "ran  down"  for  Saturdays  and 
Sundays,  and  "  ran  up  "  from  Mondays  to  Saturdays,  thus  see- 
ing something  of  the  season  and  also  doing  his  chivalrous 
devoir  by  "  poor  dear  Cynthia  who  had  had  such  a  cruel  time 
of  it." 

The  season  died,  and  Mr.  Darlington  then  settled  down  for 
a  while  at  Pinkney's  Place,  as  his  house  was  called,  and  per- 
suaded Mrs.  Clarke  to  lengthen  her  stay  there  till  the  end  of 
August.  He  would  invite  a  few  of  the  people  likely  to  "  be  of 
use  "  to  her  under  the  present  circumstances,  and  by  September 
things  would  be  "  dying  down  a  little,"  with  all  the  shooting 
parties  of  the  autumn  beginning,  and  memories  of  the  past  sea- 
son growing  a  bit  gray  and  moldy.  Then  Mrs.  Clarke  could 
do  what  she  liked  "  within  reason,  of  course,  and  provided  she 
gave  Constantinople  a  wide  berth."  This  she  had  not  prom- 
ised to  do,  but  she  seldom  made  promises. 

Rosamund  had  expressed  to  Daventry  her  pleasure  in  the 
result  of  the  trial,  but  in  the  rather  definitely  detached  man- 
ner which  had  always  marked  her  personal  aloofness  from  the 
whole  business  of  the  deciding  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  innocence  or 
guilt.  She  had  only  spoken  once  again  of  the  case  to  Dion, 
when  he  had  come  to  tell  her  the  verdict.  Then  she  had  said 
how  glad  she  was,  and  what  a  relief  it  must  be  to  Mrs.  Clarke, 
especially  after  the  hesitation  of  the  jury.  Dion  had  touched 
on  Mrs.  Clarke's  great  self-possession,  and  —  Rosamund  had 
begun  to  tell  him  how  much  better  little  Robin  was.  He  had 
not  repeated  to  Rosamund  Mrs.  Clarke's  final  words  to  him. 
There  was  no  necessity  to  do  that  just  then. 

Mrs.  Clarke  stayed  at  Hook  Green  till  the  end  of  August 
without  making  any  attempt  to  know  Rosamund.  By  that  time 
Dion  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  forgotten  about 
the  matter.  Perhaps  she  had  merely  had  a  passing  whim  which 
had  died.  He  was  not  sorry,  indeed,  he  was  almost  actively 


186  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

glad,  for  he  was  quite  sure  Rosamund  had  no  wish  to  make  Mrs. 
Clarke's  acquaintance.  At  the  beginning  of  September,  how- 
ever, when  he  had  just  come  back  to  work  after  a  month  in  camp 
which  had  hardened  him  and  made  him  as  brown  as  a  berry,  he 
received  the  following  note: 

"  CLARIDGE'S  HOTEL, 
2  September,  1897 

"  DEAR  MR.  LEITH, —  What  of  that  charming  project  of 
bringing  about  a  meeting  between  your  wife  and  me?  Esme 
Darlington  is  always  talking  about  her  beauty  and  talent,  and 
you  know  my  love  of  the  one  and  the  other.  Beauty  is  the  con- 
solation of  the  world;  talent  the  incentive  to  action  stirring 
our  latent  vitality.  In  your  marriage  you  are  fortunate;  in 
mine  I  have  been  unfortunate.  You  were  very  kind  to  me  when 
things  were  tiresome.  I  feel  a  desire  to  see  your  happiness. 
I'm  here  arranging  matters  with  my  solicitor,  and  expect  to  be 
here  off  and  on  for  several  months.  Perhaps  October  will  see 
you  back  in  town,  but  if  you  happen  to  be  in  this  dusty  noth- 
ingness now,  you  might  come  and  see  me  one  day. —  Yours  with 
goodwill, 

"  CYNTHIA  CLARKE 

"  P.  S. —  My  husband  and  I  are  separated,  of  course,  but  I 
have  my  boy  a  good  deal  with  me.  He  will  be  up  with  me  to- 
morrow. I  very  much  want  to  take  him  to  that  physical  in- 
structor you  spoke  of  to  me.  I  forget  the  name.  Is  it  Hop- 
kins? " 

As  Dion  read  this  note  in  the  little  house  he  felt  the  soft 
warm  grip  of  Stamboul.  Rosamund  and  Robin  were  staying 
at  Westgate  till  the  end  of  September;  he  would  go  down  there 
every  week  from  Saturday  till  Monday.  It  was  now  a  Mon- 
day evening.  Four  London  days  lay  before  him.  He  put 
away  the  letter  and  resolved  to  answer  it  on  the  morrow.  This 
he  did,  explaining  that  his  wife  was  by  the  sea  and  would  not 
be  back  till  the  autumn.  He  added  that  the  instructor's  name 
was  not  Hopkins  but  Jenkins,  and  gave  Mrs.  Clarke  the  address 
of  the  gymnasium.  At  the  end  of  his  short  note  he  expressed  his 
intention  of  calling  at  Claridge's,  but  did  not  say  when  he  would 
come.  He  thought  he  would  not  fix  the  day  and  the  hour  until 
he  had  been  to  Westgate.  On  a  postcard  Mrs.  Clarke  thanked 
him  for  Jenkins's  address,  and  concluded  with  "  Suggest  your 
own  day,  or  come  and  dine  if  you  like.  Perhaps,  as  you're 
alone,  you'll  prefer  that. —  C.  C." 


ECHO  187 

At  Westgate  Dion  showed  Rosamund  Mrs.  Clarke's  letter. 
As  she  read  it  he  watched  her,  but  could  gather  nothing  from 
her  face.  She  was  looking  splendidly  well  and,  he  thought, 
peculiarly  radiant.  A  surely  perfect  happiness  gazed  bravely 
out  from  her  mother's  eyes,  changed  in  some  mysterious  way 
since  the  coming  of  Robin. 

"  Well?  "  he  said,  as  she  gave  him  back  the  letter. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  her.  Esme  Darlington  turns  us  all  into 
swans,  doesn't  he?  He's  a  good-natured  enchanter.  How 
thankful  she  must  be  that  it's  all  right  about  her  boy.  Oh, 
here's  Robin!  Robino,  salute  your  father!  He's  a  hard-bitten 
military  man,  and  some  day  —  who  knows?  —  he'll  have  to 
fight  for  his  country.  Dion,  look  at  him!  Now  isn't  he  trying 
to  salute?  " 

"And  that  he  is,  ma'am!"  cried  the  ecstatic  nurse.  "He 
knows,  a  boy !  It's  trumpets,  sir,  and  drums  he's  after  already. 
He'll  fight  some  day  with  the  best  of  them.  Won't  he  then,  a 
marchy-warchy-umtums  ?  " 

And  Robin  made  reply  with  active  fists  and  feet  and  mar- 
tial noises,  assuming  alternate  expressions  of  severe  decision 
almost  worthy  of  a  Field-Marshal,  and  helpless  bewilderment 
that  suggested  a  startled  puppy.  He  was  certainly  growing  in 
vigor  and  beginning  to  mean  a  good  deal  more  than  he  had 
meant  at  first.  Dion  was  more  deeply  interested  in  him  now, 
and  sometimes  felt  as  if  Robin  returned  the  interest,  was  be- 
ginning to  be  able  to  assemble  and  concentrate  his  faculties  at 
certain  moments.  Certainly  Robin  already  played  an  active 
part  in  the  lives  of  his  parents.  Dion  realized  that  when,  on 
the  following  Monday,  he  returned  to  town  without  having  set- 
tled anything  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Clarke.  Somehow  Robin 
had  always  intervened  when  Dion  had  drawn  near  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  projected  acquaintance  between  the  woman  who  kept 
the  door  of  her  life  and  the  woman  who,  innocently,  followed 
the  flitting  light  of  desire.  There  were  the  evenings,  of  course, 
but  somehow  they  were  not  propitious  for  a  discussion  of  so- 
cial values.  Although  Robin  retired  early,  he  was  apt  to  per- 
vade the  conversation.  And  then  Rosamund  went  away  at 
intervals  to  have  a  look  at  him,  and  Dion  filled  up  the  time 
by  smoking  a  cigar  on  the  cliff  edge.  The  clock  struck  ten- 
thirty —  bedtime  at  Westgate  —  before  one  had  at  all  realized 
how  late  it  was  getting;  and  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  bother 
about  things  on  the  edge  of  sleep.  That  would  have  made  for 
insomnia.  The  question  of  Mrs.  Clarke  could  easily  wait  till 


i88  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  autumn,  when  Rosamund  would  be  back  in  town.  It  was 
impossible  for  the  two  women  to  know  each  other  when  the  one 
v/us  at  Claridge's  and  the  other  at  Westgate.  Things  would  ar- 
range themselves  naturally  in  the  autumn.  Dion  never  said  to 
himself  that  Rosamund  did  not  intend  to  know  Mrs.  Clarke, 
but  he  did  say  to  himself  that  Mrs.  Clarke  intended  to  know 
Rosamund. 

He  wondered  a  little  about  that.  Why  should  Mrs.  Clarke 
be  so  apparently  keen  on  making  the  acquaintance  of  Rosa- 
mund? Of  course,  Rosamund  was  delightful,  and  was  known 
to  be  delightful.  But  Mrs.  Clarke  must  know  heaps  of  attrac- 
tive people.  It  really  was  rather  odd.  He  decidedly  wished 
that  Mrs.  Clarke  hadn't  happened  to  get  the  idea  into  her  head, 
for  he  didn't  care  to  press  Rosamund  on  the  subject.  The  week 
passed,  and  another  visit  to  Westgate,  and  he  had  not  been  to 
Claridge's.  In  the  second  week  another  note  came  to  him  from 
Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  CLARIDGE'S,  ETC. 

"  DEAR  MR.  LEITH, —  I'm  enchanted  with  Jenkins.  He's  a 
trouvaille.  My  boy  goes  every  day  to  the  '  gym,'  as  he  calls 
it,  and  is  getting  on  splendidly.  We  are  both  grateful  to  you, 
and  hope  to  tell  you  so.  Come  whenever  you  feel  inclined,  but 
only  then.  I  love  complete  liberty  too  well  ever  to  wish  to  de- 
prive another  of  it  —  even  if  I  could.  How  wise  of  your  wife 
to  stay  by  the  sea.  I  hope  it's  doing  wonders  for  the  baby  who 
(mercifully)  isn't  wonderful. —  Yours  sincerely, 

"  CYNTHIA  CLARKE  " 

After  receiving  this  communication  Dion  felt  that  he  sim- 
ply must  go  to  see  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  he  called  at  the  hotel  and 
asked  for  her  about  five-thirty  on  the  following  afternoon.  She 
was  out,  and  he  left  his  card,  feeling  rather  relieved.  Next 
morning  he  had  a  note  regretting  she  had  missed  him,  and  ask- 
ing him,  "  when  "  he  came  again,  to  let  her  know  beforehand  at 
what  time  he  meant  to  arrive  so  that  she  might  be  in.  He 
thanked  her,  and  promised  to  do  this,  but  he  did  not  repeat  his 
visit.  By  this  time,  quite  unreasonably  he  supposed,  he  had 
begun  to  feel  decidedly  uncomfortable  about  the  whole  affair. 
Yet,  when  he  considered  it  fully  and  fairly,  he  told  himself 
that  he  was  a  fool  to  imagine  that  there  could  be  anything  in  it 
which  was  not  quite  usual  and  natural.  He  had  been  sympa- 
thetic to  Mrs.  Clarke  when  she  was  passing  through  an  un- 
pleasant experience;  he  was  Daventry's  great  friend;  he  was 


ECHO  189 

also  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Chetwinde  and  of  Esme  Darlington; 
naturally,  therefore,  Mrs.  Clarke  was  inclined  to  number  him 
among  those  who  had  "  stuck  to  her  "  when  she  was  being  cru- 
elly attacked.  Where  was  the  awkwardness  in  the  situation? 
After  denying  to  himself  that  there  was  any  awkwardness  he 
quite  suddenly  and  quite  clearly  realized  one  evening  that  such 
denial  was  useless.  There  was  awkwardness,  and  it  arose  sim- 
ply from  Rosamund's  passive  resistance  to  the  faint  pressure  — 
he  thought  it  amounted  to  that  —  applied  by  Mrs.  Clarke. 
This  it 'was  which  had  given  him,  which  gave  him  still,  a  sen- 
sation obscure,  but  definite,  of  contest. 

Mrs.  Clarke  meant  to  know  Rosamund,  and  Rosamund  didn't 
mean  to  know  Mrs.  Clarke.  Well,  then,  the  obvious  thing  for 
him  to  do  was  to  keep  out  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  way.  In  such  a 
matter  Rosamund  must  do  as  she  liked.  He  had  no  intention 
of  attempting  to  force  upon  her  any  one,  however  suitable  as  an 
acquaintance  or  even  as  a  friend,  whom  she  didn't  want  to 
know.  He  loved  her  far  too  well  to  do  that  He  decided  not 
to  mention  Mrs.  Clarke  again  to  Rosamund  when  he  went  down 
to  Westgate;  but  somehow  or  other  her  name  came  up,  and  her 
boy  was  mentioned,  too. 

"  Is  he  still  with  his  mother?  "  Rosamund  asked. 

"  Yes.  He's  nearly  eleven,  I  believe.  She  takes  him  to 
Jenkins  for  exercises.  She's  very  fond  of  him,  I  think." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  Rosamund  simply  said,  "  Poor 
child!  "  and  then  spoke  of  something  else,  but  in  those  two 
words,  said  as  she  had  said  them,  Dion  thought  he  heard  a 
definite  condemnation  of  Mrs.  Clarke.  He  began  to  wonder 
whether  Rosamund,  although  she  had  not  read  a  full,  or,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  any  account  of  the  case  in  the  papers,  had  somehow 
come  to  know  a  good  deal  about  the  unwise  life  of  Constanti- 
nople. Friends  came  to  see  her  in  London;  she  knew  several 
people  at  \Vestgate;  report  of  a  cause  celebre  floats  in  the  air; 
he  began  to  believe  she  knew. 

At  the  end  of  September,  just  before  Rosamund  was  to  re- 
turn to  London  for  the  autumn  and  winter,  Mrs.  Clarke  wrote 
to  Dion  again. 

"  CLARIDGE'S, 
28  September,  1897 

"  DEAR  MR.  LEITH, —  I'm  so  sorry  to  bother  you,  but  I  won- 
der whether  you  can  spare  me  a  moment.  It's  about  my  boy. 
He  seems  to  me  to  have  strained  himself  with  his  exercises. 
Jenkins,  as  you  probably  know,  has  gone  away  for  a  fortnight's 


igo  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

holiday,  so  I  can't  consult  him.  I  feel  a  little  anxious.  You're 
an  athlete,  I  know,  and  could  set  me  right  in  a  moment  if  I'm 
making  a  fuss  about  nothing.  The  strain  seems  to  be  in  the 
right  hip.  Is  that  possible?  —  Yours  sincerely, 

"  CYNTHIA  CLARKE  " 

Dion  didn't  know  how  to  refuse  this  appeal,  so  he  fixed  an 
hour,  went  to  Claridge's,  and  had  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Clarke 
and  her  son,  Jimmy  Clarke.  When  he  went  up  to  her  sitting- 
room  he  felt  rather  uncomfortable.  He  was  thinking  of  her 
invitation  to  dinner,  and  to  call  again,  of  his  lack  of  response. 
She  must  certainly  be  thinking  of  them,  too.  But  when  he 
was  with  her  his  discomfort  died  away  before  her  completely 
natural  and  oddly  impersonal  manner.  Dinners,  visits,  seemed 
far  away  from  her  thoughts.  She  was  apparently  concentrated 
on  her  boy,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  him,  not  at  all  of 
Dion.  Had  Dion  been  a  vain  man  he  might  have  been  vexed 
by  her  indifference;  as  he  was  not  vain,  he  felt  relieved,  and 
so  almost  grateful  to  her.  Jimmy,  too,  helped  to  make  things 
go  easily.  The  young  rascal,  a  sturdy,  good-looking  boy,  with 
dark  eyes  brimming  over  with  mischief,  took  tremendously  to 
Dion  at  first  sight. 

"  I  say,"  he  remarked,  "  you  must  be  jolly  strong!     May  I?  " 

He  felt  Dion's  biceps,  and  added,  with  a  sudden  profound 
gravity : 

"  Well,  I'm  blowed !  Mater,  he's  almost  as  hard  as  Jen- 
kins." 

His  mother  gave  Dion  a  swift  considering  look,  and  then  at 
once  began  to  consult  him  about  Jimmy's  hip.  The  visit  ended 
with  an  application  by  Dion  of  Elliman's  embrocation,  for  which 
one  of  the  hotel  page-boys  was  sent  to  the  nearest  chemist. 

"I  say,  mind  you  come  again,  Mr.  Leith!  "  vociferated 
Jimmy,  when  Dion  was  going.  "  You're  better  than  doctors, 
you  know." 

Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  back  up  her  son's  frank  invitation.  She 
only  thanked  Dion  quietly  in  her  husky  voice,  and  bade  him 
good-by  with  an  "  I  know  how  busy  you  must  be,  and  how  diffi- 
cult you  must  find  it  ever  to  pay  a  call.  You've  been  very  good 
to  us."  At  the  door  she  added,  "  I've  never  seen  Jimmy  take  so 
much  to  anyone  as  to  you."  As  Dion  went  down  the  stairs 
something  in  him  was  gently  glowing.  He  was  glad  that  young 
rascal  had  taken  to  him  at  sight.  The  fact  gave  him  confidence 
when  he  thought  of  Robin  and  the  future. 


ECHO  191 

It  occurred  to  him,  as  he  turned  into  the  Greville  Club,  that 
Mrs.  Clarke  had  not  once  mentioned  Rosamund  during  his  visit. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN  Rosamund,  Robin  and  the  nurse  came  back  to 
London  on  the  last  day  of  September,  Beatrice  and 
Daventry  were  settled  in  their  home.  They  had 
taken  a  flat  in  De  Lome  Gardens,  Kensington,  high  up  on  the 
seventh  floor  of  a  big  building,  which  overlooked  from  a  dis- 
tance the  trees  of  Kensington  Gardens.  Their  friends  soon 
began  to  call  on  them,  and  one  of  the  first  to  mount  up  in  the 
lift  to  their  "  hill-top,"  as  Daventry  called  their  seventh  floor, 
was  Mrs.  Clarke.  A  few  nights  after  her  call  the  Daventrys 
dined  in  Little  Market  Street,  and  Daventry,  whose  happiness 
had  raised  him  not  only  to  the  seventh-floor  flat,  but  also  to 
the  seventh  heaven,  mentioned  that  she  had  been,  and  that 
they  were  going  to  dine  with  her  at  Claridge's  on  the  follow- 
ing night.  He  enlarged,  almost  with  exuberance,  upon  her 
savoir-vivre,  her  knowledge  and  taste,  and  said  Beattie  was 
delighted  with  her.  Beatrice  did  not  deny  it.  She  was  never 
exuberant,  but  she  acknowledged  that  she  had  found  Mrs. 
Clarke  attractive  and  interesting. 

"  A  lot  of  the  clever  ones  are  going  to-morrow,"  said  Daven- 
try. He  mentioned  several,  both  women  and  men,  among  them 
a  lady  who  was  famed  for  her  exclusiveness  as  well  as  for  her 
brains. 

Evidently  Mrs.  Chetwinde  had  been  speaking  by  the  book 
when  she  had  said  at  the  trial,  "  If  she  wins,  she  wins,  and 
it's  all  right.  If  she  gets  the  verdict,  the  world  won't  do  any- 
thing, except  laugh  at  Beadon  Clarke."  No  serious  impression 
had  apparently  been  left  upon  society  by  the  first  disagree- 
ment of  the  jury.  The  "  wild  mind  in  the  innocent  body  "  had 
been  accepted  for  what  it  was.  And  perhaps  now,  chastened 
by  a  sad  experience,  the  wild  mind  was  on  the  way  to  becom- 
ing tame.  Dion  wondered  if  it  were  so.  After  dinner  he  was 
undeceived  by  Daventry,  who  told  him  over  their  cigars  that 
Mrs.  Clarke  was  positively  going  back  to  live  in  Constantinople, 
and  had  already  taken  a  flat  there,  "  against  every  one's  ad- 
vice." Beadon  Clarke  had  got  himself  transferred,  and  was  to 


192  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

be  sent  to  Madrid,  so  she  wouldn't  run  against  him;  but  never- 
theless she  was  making  a  great  mistake. 

"  However,"  Daventry  concluded,  "  there's  something  fine 
about  her  persistence ;  and  of  course  a  guilty  woman  would  never 
dare  to  go  back,  even  after  an  acquittal." 

"  No,"  said  Dion,  thinking  of  the  way  his  hand  had  been 
held  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  drawing-room.  "  I  suppose  not." 

"  I  wonder  when  Rosamund  will  get  to  know  her,"  said 
Daventry,  with  perhaps  a  slightly  conscious  carelessness. 

"  Never,  perhaps,"  said  Dion,  with  equal  carelessness. 
"  Often  one  lives  for  years  in  London  without  knowing,  or  even 
ever  seeing,  one's  next-door  neighbor." 

"  To  be  sure!  "  said  Daventry.  "  One  of  London's  many  ad- 
vantages, or  disadvantages,  as  the  case  may  be." 

And  he  began  to  talk  about  Whistler's  Nocturnes.  Dion  had 
never  happened  to  tell  Daventry  about  Jimmy  Clarke's  strained 
hip  and  his  own  application  of  Elliman's  embrocation.  He  had 
told  Rosamund,  of  course,  and  she  had  said  that  if  Robin  ever 
strained  himself  she  should  do  exactly  the  same  thing. 

That  night,  when  the  Daventrys  had  gone,  Dion  asked  Rosa- 
mund whether  she  thought  Beattie  was  happy.  She  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  then  she  said  with  her  usual  directness: 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  she  is,  Dion.  Guy  is  a  dear,  kind,  good 
husband  to  her,  but  there's  something  homeless  about  Beattie 
somehow.  She's  living  in  that  pretty  little  flat  in  De  Lome 
Gardens,  and  yet  she  seems  to  me  a  wanderer.  But  we  must 
wait;  she  may  find  what  she's  looking  for.  I  pray  to  God  that 
she  will." 

She  did  not  explain;  he  guessed  what  she  meant.  Had  she, 
too,  been  a  wanderer  at  first,  and  had  she  found  what  she  had 
been  looking  for?  While  Rosamund  was  speaking  he  had  been 
pitying  Guy.  When  she  had  finished  he  wondered  whether 
he  had  ever  had  cause  to  pity  some  one  else  —  now  and  then. 
Despite  the  peaceful  happiness  of  his  married  life  there  was 
a  very  faint  coldness  at,  or  near  to,  his  heart.  It  came  upon 
him  like  a  breath  of  frost  stealing  up  out  of  the  darkness  to  one 
who,  standing  in  a  room  lit  and  warmed  by  a  glowing  fire,  opens 
a  window  and  lets  in  for  a  moment  a  winter  night.  But  he  shut 
his  window  quickly,  and  he  turned  to  look  at  the  fire  and  to 
warm  his  hands  at  its  glow. 

Mrs.  Clarke  rapidly  established  a  sort  of  intimacy  with  the 
Daventrys.  As  Daventry  had  helped  to  fight  for  her,  and  genu- 
inely delighted  in  her  faculties,  this  was  very  natural;  for 


ECHO  193 

Beatrice,  unlike  Rosamund,  was  apt  to  take  her  color  gently 
from  those  with  whom  she  lived,  desiring  to  please  them,  not 
because  she  was  vain  and  wished  to  be  thought  charming,  but 
because  she  had  an  unusually  sweet  disposition  and  wished  to 
be  charming.  She  was  sincere,  and  if  asked  a  direct  ques- 
tion always  returned  an  answer  that  was  true;  but  she  some- 
times fell  in  with  an  assumption  from  a  soft  desire  to  be  kind. 
Daventry  quite  innocently  assumed  that  she  found  Mrs.  Clarke 
as  delightful  as  he  did.  Perhaps  she  did;  perhaps  she  did  not. 
However  it  was,  she  gently  accepted  Mrs.  Clarke  as  a  friend. 

Dion,  of  course,  knew  of  this  friendship;  and  so  did  Rosa- 
mund. She  never  made  any  comment  upon  it,  and  showed  no 
interest  in  it.  But  her  life  that  autumn  was  a  full  one.  She 
had  Robin;  she  had  the  house  to  look  after,  "  my  little  house  "; 
she  had  Dion  in  the  evenings;  she  had  quantities  of  friends 
and  acquaintances;  and  she  had  her  singing.  She  had  now 
definitely  given  up  singing  professionally.  Her  very  short  ca- 
reer as  an  artist  was  closed.  But  she  had  begun  to  practise 
diligently  again,  and  showed  by  this  assiduity  that  she  loved 
music  not  for  what  she  could  gain  by  it,  but  for  its  own  sake. 
Of  her  friends  and  acquaintances  she  saw  much  less  than 
formerly.  Many  of  them  complained  that  they  never  could  get 
a  glimpse  of  her  now,  that  she  shut  them  out,  that  "  not  at 
home  "  had  become  a  parrot-cry  on  the  lips  of  her  well-trained 
parlor-maid,  that  she  cared  for  nobody  now  that  she  had  a 
husband  and  a  baby,  that  she  was  self-engrossed,  etc.,  etc.  But 
they  could  not  be  angry  with  her;  for  if  they  did  happen  to 
meet  her,  or  if  she  did  happen  to  be  "  at  home  "  when  they 
called,  they  always  found  her  the  genial,  radiant,  kind  and 
friendly  Rosamund  of  old;  full,  apparently,  of  all  the  former 
interest  in  them  and  their  doings,  eager  to  welcome  and  make 
the  most  of  their  jokes  and  good  stories,  sympathetic  towards 
their  troubles  and  sorrows.  To  Dion  she  once  said  in  explana- 
tion of  her  withdrawal  from  the  rather  bustling  life  which  keep- 
ing up  with  many  friends  and  acquaintances  implies: 

"  I  think  one  sometimes  has  to  make  a  choice  between  liv- 
ing deeply  in  the  essentials  and  just  paddling  up  to  one's  ankles 
in  the  non-essentials.  I  want  to  live  deeply  if  I  can,  and  I  am 
very  happy  in  quiet.  I  can  hear  only  in  peace  the  voices  that 
mean  most  to  me." 

"  I  remember  what  you  said  to  me  once  in  the  Acropolis,"  he 
answered. 

"What  was  that?" 


194  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  You  said,  '  Oh,  Dion,  if  you  knew  how  something  in  me 
cares  for  freshness  and  for  peace.' ': 

"  You  remember  my  very  words!  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  understand?  " 

"  And  besides,"  he  said  slowly,  and  as  if  with  some  hesita- 
tion, "  you  used  to  long  for  a  very  quiet  life,  for  the  religious 
life;  didn't  you?" 

"  Once,  but  it  seems  such  ages  ago." 

"  And  yet  Robin's  not  a  year  old  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden,  and  almost  intense,  in- 
quiry; he  was  smiling  at  her. 

"  Robino  maestro  di  casa !  "  he  added. 

And  they  both  laughed. 

Towards  the  end  of  November  one  day  Daventry  said  to  Dion 
in  the  Greville  Club: 

"  Beatrice  is  going  to  give  a  dinner  somewhere,  probably  at 
the  Carlton.  She  thought  of  the  twenty-eighth.  Are  Rosamund 
and  you  engaged  that  night?  She  wants  you,  of  course." 

"  No.  We  don't  go  out  much.  Rose  is  an  early  rooster,  as 
she  calls  it." 

"  Then  the  twenty-eighth  would  do  capitally." 

"Shall  I  tell  Rose?" 

"  Yes,  do.  Beattie  will  write  too,  or  tell  Rosamund  when 
she  sees  her." 

"  Whom  are  you  going  to  have?  " 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Chetwinde  for  one,  and  —  we  must  see  whom  we 
can  get.  We'll  try  to  make  it  cheery  and  not  too  imbecile." 

As  Daventry  was  speaking,  Dion  felt  certain  that  the  din- 
ner had  an  object,  and  he  thought  he  knew  what  that  object  was. 
But  he  only  said: 

"  It's  certain  to  be  jolly,  and  I  always  enjoy  myself  at  the 
Carlton." 

"Even  with  bores?"  said  Daventry,  unable  to  refrain  from 
pricking  a  bubble,  although  he  guessed  the  reason  why  Dion 
had  blown  it. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  sure  you  won't  invite  bores,"  said  Dion,  try- 
ing to  preserve  a  casual  air,  and  wishing,  for  the  moment,  that 
he  and  his  friend  were  densely  stupid  instead  of  quite  intelli- 
gent. 

"  Pray  that  Beattie  and  I  may  be  guided  in  our  choice,"  re- 
turned Daventry,  going  to  pick  up  the  "  Saturday  Review." 

Rosamund  said  of  course  she  would  go  on  the  twenty-eighth 


ECHO  195 

and  help  Beattie  with  her  dinner.  She  had  accepted  before 
she  asked  who  were  the  invited  guests.  Beattie,  who  was  evi- 
dently quite  guileless  in  the  matter,  told  her  at  once  that  Mrs. 
Clarke  was  among  them.  Rosamund  said  nothing,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  looking  forward  to  the  twenty-eighth.  She  even 
got  a  new  gown  for  it,  and  Dion  began  to  feel  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  in  supposing  that  Rosamund  had  long  ago  de- 
cided not  to  know  Mrs.  Clarke.  He  was  very  glad,  for  he  had 
often  felt  uncomfortable  about  Mrs.  Clarke,  who,  he  supposed, 
must  have  believed  that  his  wife  did  not  wish  to  meet  her, 
as  her  reiterated  desire  to  make  Rosamund's  acquaintance  had 
met  with  no  response.  She  had,  he  thought,  shown  the  tact 
of  a  lady  and  of  a  thorough  woman  of  the  world  in  not  press- 
ing the  point,  and  in  never  seeking  to  continue  her  acquaint- 
ance, or  dawning  friendship,  with  him  since  his  wife  had  come 
back  to  town.  He  felt  a  strong  desire  now  to  be  pleasant  and 
cordial  to  her,  and  to  show  her  how  charming  and  sympathetic 
his  Rosamund  was.  He  looked  forward  to  this  dinner  as  he 
seldom  looked  forward  to  any  social  festivity. 

On  the  twenty-sixth  of  November  Robin  had  a  cold!  On 
the  twenty-seventh  it  was  worse,  and  he  developed  a  little  hard 
cough  which  was  rather  pathetic,  and  which  seemed  to  surprise 
and  interest  him  a  good  deal.  Rosamund  was  full  of  solicitude. 
On  the  night  of  the  twenty-seventh  she  said  she  would  sit  up 
with  Robin.  The  nurse  protested,  but  Rosamund  was  smil- 
ingly firm. 

"  I  want  you  to  have  a  good  night,  Nurse,"  she  said. 
"  You're  too  devoted  and  take  too  much  out  of  yourself.  And, 
besides,  I  shouldn't  sleep.  I  should  be  straining  my  ears  all 
the  time  to  hear  whether  my  boy  was  coughing  or  not." 

Nurse  had  to  give  in,  of  course.  But  Dion  was  dismayed 
when  he  heard  of  the  project. 

"  You'll  be  worn  out!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  No,  I  shan't.     But  even  if  I  were  it  wouldn't  matter." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  look  your  radiant  self  for  Beattie's 
dinner." 

"Oh  — the  dinner!" 

It  seemed  she  had  forgotten  it 

"  Robin  comes  first,"  she  said  firmly,  after  a  moment  of 
silence. 

And  she  sat  up  that  night  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  nursery 
fire,  ministering  at  intervals  to  the  child,  who  seemed  impressed 
and  heartened  in  his  coughings  by  his  mother's  presence. 


196  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

On  the  following  day  she  was  rather  tired,  the  cough  was 
not  abated,  and  when  Dion  came  back  from  business  he  learnt 
that  she  had  telegraphed  to  Beattie  to  give  up  the  dinner. 
He  was  very  much  disappointed.  But  she  did  really  look  tired; 
Robin's  cough  was  audible  in  the  quiet  house;  the  telegram 
had  gone,  and  of  course  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done. 
Dion  did  not  even  express  his  disappointment;  but  he  begged 
Rosamund  to  go  very  early  to  bed,  and  offered  to  sleep  in  a 
separate  room  if  his  return  late  was  likely  to  disturb  her.  She 
agreed  that,  perhaps,  that  would  be  best.  So,  at  about  eleven- 
thirty  that  night,  Dion  made  his  way  to  their  spare  room,  walk- 
ing tentatively  lest  a  board  should  creak  and  awaken 
Rosamund. 

Everybody  had  missed  her  and  had  made  inquiries  about 
her,  except  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Daventry.  The  latter  had  not 
mentioned  her  in  Dion's  hearing.  But  he  was  very  busy  with 
his  guests.  Mrs.  Clarke  had  apparently  not  known  that  Rosa- 
mund had  been  expected  at  the  dinner,  for  when  Dion,  who 
had  sat  next  her,  had  said  something  about  the  unfortunate 
reason  for  Rosamund's  absence,  Mrs.  Clarke  had  seemed  sin- 
cerely surprised. 

"  But  I  thought  your  wife  had  quite  given  up  going  out 
since  her  child  was  born?  "  she  had  said. 

"  Oh  no.     She  goes  out  sometimes." 

"  I  had  no  idea  she  did.  But  now  I  shall  begin  to  be  dis- 
appointed and  to  feel  I've  missed  something.  You  shouldn't 
have  told  me." 

It  was  quite  gravely  and  naturally  said.  As  he  went  into 
the  spare  room,  Dion  remembered  the  exact  tone  of  Mrs. 
Clarke's  husky  voice  in  speaking  it,  the  exact  expression  in 
her  eyes.  They  were  strange  eyes,  he  thought,  unlike  any  other 
eyes  he  had  seen.  In  them  there  was  often  a  look  that  seemed 
both  intent  and  remote.  Their  gaze  was  very  direct  but  it 
was  not  piercing.  There  was  melancholy  in  the  eyes  but  there 
was  no  demand  for  sympathy.  When  Dion  thought  of  the 
expression  in  Rosamund's  eyes  he  realized  how  far  from  happi- 
ness, and  even  from  serenity,  Mrs.  Clarke  must  be,  and  he  could 
not  help  pitying  her.  Yet  she  never  posed  as  une  femme 
incomprise,  or  indeed  as  anything.  She  was  absolutely  simple 
and  natural.  He  had  enjoyed  talking  to  her.  Despite  her 
gravity  she  was,  he  thought,  excellent  company,  a  really  inter- 
esting woman  and  strongly  individual.  She  seemed  totally 
devoid  of  the  little  tiresomenesses  belonging  to  many  women  — - 


ECHO  197 

tiresomenesses  which  spring  out  of  vanity  and  affectation,  the 
desire  of  possession,  the  uneasy  wish  to  "  cut  out  "  publicly 
other  women.  Mrs.  Clarke  would  surely  never  "  manage  "  a 
man.  If  she  held  a  man  it  would  be  with  the  listless  and  yet 
imperative  grip  of  Stamboul.  The  man  might  go  if  he  would, 
but  —  would  he  want  to  go  ? 

In  thinking  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  Dion  of  course  always  con- 
sidered her  with  the  detached  spectator's  mind.  No  woman 
on  earth  was  of  real  importance  to  him  except  Rosamund.  His 
mother  he  did  not  consciously  count  among  women.  She  was 
to  him  just  the  exceptional  being,  the  unique  and  homely  mani- 
festation a  devoted  mother  is  to  the  son  who  loves  her  without 
thinking  about  it;  not  numbered  among  women  or  even  among 
mothers.  She  stood  to  him  for  protective  love  unquestioning, 
for  interest  in  him  and  all  his  doings  unwavering,  for  faith  in 
his  inner  worth  undying,  for  the  Eternities  without  beginning 
or  ending;  but  probably  he  did  not  know  it.  Of  Rosamund, 
what  she  was,  what  she  meant  in  his  life,  he  was  intensely, 
even,  secretly,  almost  savagely  conscious.  In  Mrs.  Clarke  he 
was  more  interested  than  he  happened  to  be  in  any  of  the 
women  who  dwelt  in  the  great  world  of  those  whom  he  did  not 
love  and  never  could  love. 

Had  the  dinner-party  he  had  just  been  to  been  arranged  by 
Daventry  in  order  that  Rosamund  and  Mrs.  Clarke  might  meet 
in  a  perfectly  natural  way?  If  so,  it  must  have  been  Daven- 
try's  idea  and  not  Mrs.  Clarke's.  Dion  had  a  feeling  that 
Daventry  had  been  vexed  by  Rosamund's  defection.  He  knew 
his  friend  very  well.  It  was  not  quite  natural  that  Daventry 
had  not  mentioned  Rosamund.  But  why  should  Daventry 
strongly  wish  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Rosamund  to  meet  if  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  not  indicated  a  desire  to  know  Rosamund?  Daven- 
try was  an  enthusiastic  adherent  of  Mrs.  Clarke's.  He  had, 
Dion  knew,  a  chivalrous  feeling  for  her.  Having  helped  to 
win  her  case,  any  slight  put  upon  her  would  be  warmly  re- 
sented by  him. 

Had  Rosamund  put  upon  her  a  slight?  Had  she  delib- 
rately  avoided  the  dinner? 

Dion  was  on  the  point  of  getting  into  the  spare-room  bed 
phen  he  asked  himself  the  question.  As  he  pulled  back  the 
clothes  he  heard  a  dry  little  sound.  It  was  Robin's  cough.  He 
tole  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  the  tail 
)f  Rosamund's  dressing-gown  disappearing  over  the  threshold 
the  nursery.  The  nursery  door  shut  softly  behind  her,  and 


198  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Dion  got  into  bed  feeling  heartily  ashamed  of  his  suspicion. 
How  low  it  was  to  search  for  hidden  motives  in  such  a  woman 
as  Rosamund.  He  resolved  never  to  do  that  again.  He  lay 
in  bed  listening,  but  he  did  not  hear  Robin's  cough  again,  and 
he  wondered  if  the  child  was  already  old  enough  to  be  what 
nurses  call  "  artful,"  whether  he  had  made  use  of  his  little 
affliction  to  get  hold  of  his  providence  in  the  night. 

What  a  mystery  was  the  relation  of  mother  and  little  child! 
He  lay  for  a  long  while  musing  about  it.  Why  hadn't  he 
followed  Rosamund  over  the  threshold  of  the  nursery  just  now? 
The  mystery  had  held  him  back. 

Was  it  greater  than  the  mystery  of  the  relation  of  man  to 
woman  in  a  love  such  as  his  for  Rosamund?  He  considered 
it,  but  he  was  certain  that  he  could  not  fathom  it.  No  man, 
he  felt  sure,  knew  or  ever  could  know  how  a  mother  like 
Rosamund,  that  is  an  intensely  maternal  mother,  regarded  her 
child  when  he  was  little  and  dependent  upon  her;  how  she 
loved  him,  what  he  meant  to  her.  And  no  doubt  the  gift  of 
the  mother  to  the  child  was  subtly  reciprocated  by  the  child. 
But  just  how? 

Dion  could  not  remember  at  all  what  he  had  felt,  or  how  he 
had  regarded  his  mother  when  he  was  nine  months  old.  Pres- 
ently he  recalled  Hermes  and  the  child  in  that  remote  and 
hushed  room  hidden  away  in  the  green  wilds  of  Elis;  he  even 
saw  them  before  him  —  saw  the  wonderfully  serene  and  con- 
templative expression  on  the  beautiful  face  of  the  Hermes,  saw 
the  child's  stretched-out  arm. 

Elis!  He  had  been  wonderfully  happy  there,  far  away  in 
the  smiling  wilderness.  Would  he  ever  be  there  again?  And, 
if  fate  did  indeed  lead  his  steps  thither,  would  he  again  be 
wonderfully  happy?  Of  one  thing  he  was  certain;  that  he 
would  never  see  Elis,  would  never  see  Hermes  and  the  child 
again,  unless  Rosamund  was  with  him.  She  had  made  the 
green  wilderness  to  blossom  as  the  rose.  She  only  could  make 
his  life  to  blossom.  He  depended  upon  her  terribly  —  terribly. 
Always  that  love  of  his  was  growing.  People,  especially 
women,  often  said  that  the  love  of  a  man  was  quickly  satisfied, 
more  quickly  than  a  woman's,  that  the  masculine  satisfaction 
was  soon  followed  by  satiety.  Love  such  as  that  was  only 
an  appetite,  a  species  of  lust.  Such  a  woman  as  Rosamund 
could  not  awaken  mere  lust.  For  her  a  man  might  have  desire, 
but  only  the  desire  that  every  great  love  of  a  man  for  a  woman 


! 


ECHO  199 

encloses.  And  how  utterly  different  that  was  from  physical 
lust! 

He  thought  of  the  maidens  upholding  the  porch  of  the 
Erechtheion.  His  Rosamund  descended  from  them,  was  as 
pure,  as  serene  in  her  goodness,  as  beautiful  as  they  were. 

In  thinking  of  the  beloved  maidens  he  did  not  think  of 
them  as  marble. 

Before  he  went  to  sleep  Dion  had  realized  that,  since  Rosa- 
mund was  awake,  the  reason  for  his  coming  to  the  spare  room 
did  not  exist.  Nevertheless  he  did  not  go  to  their  bedroom 
that  night.  Robin's  little  dry  cough  still  sounded  in  his  ears. 
To-night  was  Robin's  kingdom. 

In  a  day  or  two  Robin  was  better,  in  a  week  he  was  per- 
fectly well.  If  he  had  not  chanced  to  catch  cold,  would  Rosa- 
mund have  worn  that  new  evening-gown  at  the  Carlton  dinner? 

On  that  question  Dion  had  a  discussion  with  Daventry  which 
was  disagreeable  to  him.  One  day  Daventry,  who  had  evi- 
dently been,  in  silence,  debating  whether  to  speak  or  not,  said 
to  him: 

"  Oh,  Dion,  d'you  mind  if  I  use  a  friend's  privilege  and  say 
something  I  very  much  want  to  say,  but  which  you  mayn't 
be  so  keen  to  hear?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.     We  can  say  anything  to  each  other." 

"  Can  we?     I'm  not  sure  of  that  —  now." 

"  What  d'you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well  —  anyhow,  this  time  I'll  venture.  Why  did 
Rosamund  throw  us  over  the  other  night  at  almost  the  last 
moment?  " 

"  Because  Robin  was  ill." 

"  He's  quite  well  now." 

"Why  not?     It's  ten  days  ago." 

"  He  can't  have  been  so  very  ill." 

"  He  was  ill  enough  to  make  Rosamund  very  anxious.  She 
was  up  with  him  the  whole  night  before  your  dinner;  and  not 
only  that,  she  was  up  again  on  the  nigh't  of  the  dinner,  though 
she  was  very  tired." 

"  Well,  coming  to  our  dinner  wouldn't  have  prevented  that 
—  only  eight  till  ten-thirty." 

"  I  don't  think,  Guy,  you  at  all  understand  Rosamund's  feel- 
ing for  Robin,"  said  Dion,  with  a  sort  of  dry  steadiness. 

"  Probably  not,  being  a  man." 

"  Perhaps  a  father  can  understand  better." 


200  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Better  ?  It  seems  to  me  one  either  does  understand  a  thing 
or  one  doesn't  understand  it." 

There  was  a  not  very  attractive  silence  which  Duventry  broke 
by  saying: 

"  Then  you  think  if  Beattie  and  I  give  another  dinner  at  the 
Carlton  —  a  piece  of  reckless  extravagance,  but  we  are  mad  on 
entertaining! — Robin  won't  be  ill  again?" 

"Another  dinner?     You'll  be  ruined." 

"  I've  got  several  more  briefs.     Would  Robin  be  ill?  " 

"  How  the  deuce  can  any  one  know?  " 

"  I'll  hazard  a  guess.     He  would  be  ill." 

Dion  reddened.  There  was  sudden  heat  not  only  in  his 
cheeks  but  also  about  his  heart. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  capable  of  talking  such  pernicious 
rubbish!  "  he  said. 

"  Let's  prove  whether  it's  rubbish  or  not.  Beattie  will  send 
Rosamund  another  dinner  invitation  to-morrow,  and  then  we'll 
wait  and  see  what  happens  to  Robin's  health." 

"  Guy,  I  don't  want  to  have  a  quarrel  with  you." 

"  A  quarrel?     What  about?  " 

"  If  you  imply  that  Rosamund  is  insincere,  is  capable  of 
acting  a  part,  we  shall  quarrel.  Robin  was  really  ill.  Rosa- 
mund fully  meant  to  go  to  your  dinner.  She  bought  a  new 
dress  expressly  for  it." 

"  Forgive  me,  old  Dion,  and  please  don't  think  I  was  attack- 
ing Rosamund.  No.  But  I  think  sometimes  the  very  sweetest 
and  best  women  do  have  their  little  bit  of  insincerity.  To 
women  very  often  the  motive  seems  of  more  importance  than 
the  action  springing  from  it.  I  had  an  idea  that  perhaps  Rosa- 
mund was  anxious  not  to  hurt  some  one's  feelings." 

"Whose?" 

After  a  slight  hesitation  Daventry  said: 

"  Mrs.  Clarke's." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Clarke  know  that  Rosamund  accepted  to  go  to 
your  dinner  ?  "  asked  Dion  abruptly,  and  with  a  forcible  direct- 
ness that  put  the  not  unastute  Daventry  immediately  on  his 
guard. 

"  What  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Everything,  I  should  think.     Did  she?  " 

"  No,"  said  Daventry. 

"Then  hovr  could ?"  Dion  began.  But  he  broke  off, 

and  added  more  quietly: 


ECHO  201 

"  Why  are  you  anxious  that  Rosamund  should  know  Mrs. 
Clarke?" 

"  Well,  didn't  Mrs.  Clarke  ages  ago  express  a  wish  to  know 
Rosamund  if  the  case  went  in  her  favor?  " 

"  Oh,  I  —  yes,  I  fancy  she  did.  But  she  probably  meant 
nothing  by  it,  and  has  forgotten  it." 

"  I  doubt  that.  A  woman  who  has  gone  through  Mrs. 
Clarke's  ordeal  is  generally  hypersensitive  afterwards." 

"  But  she's  come  out  splendidly.  Everybody  believes  in  her. 
She's  got  her  child.  What  more  can  she  want?  " 

"  As  she's  such  a  great  friend  of  ours  I  think  it  must  seem 
very  odd  to  her  not  knowing  Rosamund,  especially  as  she's 
good  friends  with  you.  D'you  mind  if  we  ask  Rosamund  to 
meet  her  again  ?  " 

"  You've  done  it  once.  I  should  leave  things  alone.  Mind, 
Rosamund  has  never  told  me  she  doesn't  want  to  know  Mrs. 
Clarke." 

"  That  may  be  another  example  of  her  goodness  of  heart," 
said  Daventry.  "  Rosamund  seldom  or  never  speaks  against 
people.  I'll  tell  you  the  simple  truth,  Dion.  As  I  helped  to 
defend  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  as  we  won  and  she  was  proved  to  be 
an  innocent  woman,  and  as  I  believe  in  her  and  admire  her 
very  much,  I'm  sensitive  for  her.  Perhaps  it's  very  absurd." 

"  I  think  it's  very  chivalrous." 

"  Oh  —  rot!  But  there  it  is.  And  so  I  hate  to  see  a  rela- 
tion of  my  own  —  I  count  Rosamund  as  a  relation  now  — 
standing  out  against  her." 

"  There's  no  reason  to  think  she's  doing  that." 

An  expression  that  seemed  to  be  of  pity  flitted  over  Daven- 
try's  intelligent  face,  and  he  slightly  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  Anyhow,  we  won't  bother  you  with  another  dinner  invita- 
tion," he  said. 

And  so  the  conversation  ended. 

It  left  with  Dion  an  impression  which  was  not  pleasant,  and 
he  could  not  help  wondering  whether,  during  the  conversation, 
his  friend  had  told  him  a  direct  and  deliberate  lie. 

No  more  dinners  were  given  by  Beattie  and  Daventry  at  the 
Carlton.  Robin's  health  continued  to  be  excellent.  Mrs. 
Clarke  was  never  mentioned  at  5  Little  Market  Street,  and  she 
gave  to  the  Leiths  no  sign  of  life,  though  Dion  knew  that  she 
was  still  in  London  and  was  going  to  stay  on  there  until  the 
spring.  He  did  not  meet  her,  although  she  knew  many  of 


202  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

those  whom  he  knew.  This  was  partly  due,  perhaps,  to  chance; 
but  it  was  also  partly  due  to  deliberate  action  by  Dion.  He 
avoided  going  to  places  where  he  thought  he  might  meet  her: 
to  Esme  Darlington's,  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde's,  to  one  or  two  other 
houses  which  she  frequented;  he  even  gave  up  visiting  Jenkins's 
gymnasium  because  he  knew  she  continued  to  go  there  regularly 
with  Jimmy  Clarke,  whom,  since  the  divorce  case,  with  his 
father's  consent,  she  had  taken  away  from  school  and  given 
to  the  care  of  a  tutor.  All  this  was  easy  enough,  and  required 
but  little  management  on  account  of  Rosamund's  love  of  home 
and  his  love  of  what  she  loved.  Since  Robin's  coming  she 
had  begun  to  show  more  and  more  plainly  her  root-indifference 
to  the  outside  pleasures  and  attractions  of  the  world,  was  be- 
coming, Dion  thought,  week  by  week,  more  cloistral,  was  giving 
the  rein,  perhaps,  to  secret  impulses  which  marriage  had  inter- 
fered with  for  a  time,  but  which  were  now  reviving  within  her. 
Robin  was  a  genuine  reason,  but  perhaps  also  at  moments  an 
excuse.  Was  there  not  sometimes  in  the  quiet  little  house, 
quiet  unless  disturbed  by  babyhood's  occasional  outbursts,  a 
strange  new  atmosphere,  delicate  and  subdued,  which  hinted 
at  silent  walks,  at  twilight  dreamings,  at  slowly  pacing  feet, 
bowed  heads  and  wide-eyed  contemplation?  Or  was  all  this  a 
fancy  of  Dion's,  bred  in  him  by  Rosamund's  revelation  of  an 
old  and  haunting  desire?  He  did  not  know;  but  he  did  know 
that  sometimes,  when  he  heard  her  warm  voice  singing  at  a 
little  distance  from  him  within  their  house,  he  thought  of  a 
nun's  voice,  in  some  dim  and  remote  chapel  with  stained-glass 
windows,  singing  an  evening  hymn  in  the  service  of  Benedic- 
tion. 

In  the  midst  of  many  friends,  in  the  midst  of  the  enormous 
City,  Rosamund  effected,  or  began  to  effect,  a  curiously  intent 
withdrawal,  and  Dion,  as  it  were,  accompanied  her;  or  perhaps 
it  were  truer  to  say,  followed  after  her.  He  loved  quiet  even- 
ings in  his  home,  and  the  love  of  them  grew  steadily  upon  him. 
To  the  occasional  protests  of  his  friends  he  laughingly  replied: 

"  The  fact  is  we're  both  very  happy  at  home.  We're  an 
unfashionable  couple." 

Bruce  Evelin,  Esme  Darlington  and  a  few  others,  including, 
of  course,  Dion's  mother  and  the  Daventrys,  they  sometimes 
asked  to  come  to  them.  Their  little  dinners  were  homely  and 
delightful;  but  Mr.  Darlington  often  regretted  plaintively  their 
"  really,  if  I  may  say  so,  almost  too  definite  domesticity."  He 
even  said  to  certain  intimates: 


ECHO  203 

"  I  know  the  next  thing  we  shall  hear  of  will  be  that  the 
Leiths  have  decided  to  bury  themselves  in  the  country.  And 
Dion  Leith  will  wreck  his  nerves  by  daily  journeys  to  town 
in  some  horrid  business  train." 

At  the  beginning  of  January,  however,  there  came  an  invita- 
tion which  they  decided  to  accept.  It  was  to  an  evening  party 
at  Mrs.  Chetwinde's,  and  she  begged  Rosamund  to  be  nice  to 
her  and  to  sing  at  it. 

"  Since  you've  given  up  singing  professionally  one  never 
hears  you  at  all,"  she  wrote.  "  I'm  not  going  to  tell  the  usual 
lie  and  say  I'm  only  having  a  few  people.  On  the  contrary, 
I'm  asking  as  many  as  my  house  will  hold.  It's  on  January 
the  fifteenth." 

It  happened  that  the  invitation  arrived  in  Little  Market 
Street  by  the  last  post,  and  that,  earlier  in  the  day,  Daventry 
had  met  Dion  in  the  Club  and  had  casually  told  him  that  Mrs. 
Clarke  was  spending  the  whole  of  January  in  Paris,  to  get  some 
things  for  the  flat  in  Constantinople  which  she  intended  to 
occupy  in  the  late  spring.  Rosamund  showed  Dion  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde's note. 

"  Let's  go,"  he  said  at  once. 

"  Shall  we  ?  Do  you  like  these  crowds  ?  She  says  '  as  many 
as  my  house  will  hold.  '  " 

"  All  the  better.  There'll  be  all  the  more  to  enjoy  the  result 
of  your  practising.  Do  say  yes." 

His  manner  was  urgent.  Mrs.  Clarke  would  be  in  Paris. 
This  party  was  certainly  no  ingenuity  of  Daventry's. 

"  We  mustn't  begin  to  live  like  a  monk  and  a  nun,"  he 
exclaimed.  "  We're  too  young  and  enjoy  life  too  much  for 
that." 

"Do  monks  and  nuns  live  together?  Since  when?"  said 
Rosamund,  laughing  at  him. 

"  Poor  wretches!     If  only  they  did,  how  much !  " 

"  Hush !  "  she  said,  with  a  smiling  pretense  of  thinking  of 
being  shocked  presently. 

She  went  to  the  writing-table. 

"  Very  well,  then,  we'll  go  if  you  want  to." 

"  Don't  you?  "  he  asked,  following  her. 

She  had  sat  down  and  taken  up  a  pen.  Now  she  looked  up 
at  him  with  her  steady  eyes. 

"  I'm  sure  I  shall  enjoy  it  when  I'm  there,"  she  answered. 
"  I  generally  enjoy  things.  You  know  that.  You've  seen  me 
among  people  so  often." 


204  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes.  One  would  think  you  reveled  in  society  if  one  only 
knew  you  in  that  phase." 

"  Well,  I  don't  really  care  for  it  one  bit.  I  can't,  because 
I  never  miss  it  if  I  don't  have  it." 

"  I  believe  you  really  care  for  very  few  things  and  for  very 
few  people,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  that's  true  about  people." 

"How  many  people,  I  wonder?  " 

"  I  don't  think  one  always  knows  whom  one  cares  for  until 
something  happens." 

"  Something?  " 

"  Until  one's  threatened  with  loss,  or  until  one  actually  does 
lose  somebody  one  loves.  I  " —  she  hesitated,  stretched  out 
her  hand,  and  drew  some  notepaper  out  of  a  green  case  which 
stood  on  the  table  — "  I  had  absolutely  no  idea  what  I  felt  for 
my  mother  until  she  died.  She  died  very  suddenly." 

Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  and  her  whole  face  suddenly 
reddened. 

"  Then  I  knew !  "  she  said,  in  a  broken  voice. 

Dion  had  never  before  seen  her  look  as  she  was  looking  now. 

For  a  moment  he  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  regarding  a 
stranger.  There  was  a  sort  of  heat  of  anger  in  the  face,  which 
looked  rebellious  in  its  emotion;  and  he  believed  it  was  the 
rebellion  in  her  face  which  made  him  realize  how  intensely  she 
had  been  able  to  love  her  mother. 

"  Now  I  must  write  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde,"  she  said,  suddenly 
bending  over  the  notepaper,  "  and  tell  her  we'll  come,  and 
I'll  sing." 

"  Yes." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  moving  pen.  Then  he 
bent  down  and  just  touched  her  shoulder  with  a  great  gentleness. 

"  If  you  knew  what  I  would  do  to  keep  every  breath  of 
sorrow  out  of  your  life!  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Without  looking  up  she  touched  his  hand. 

"  I  know  you  would.  You  could  never  bring  sorrow  into 
my  life." 

From  that  day  Dion  realized  what  intensity  of  feeling  lay 
beneath  Rosamund's  serene  and  often  actively  joyous  de- 
meanor. Perhaps  she  cared  for  very  few  people,  but  for  those 
few  she  cared  with  a  force  surely  almost  abnormal.  Her  mother 
had  now  been  dead  for  many  years;  never  before  had  Rosa- 
mund spoken  of  her  death  to  him.  He  understood  the  reason 
of  that  silence  now,  and  from  that  day  the  desire  to  keep  all 


ECHO  205 

sorrow  from  her  became  almost  a  passion  in  him.  He  even 
felt  that  its  approach  to  her,  that  its  cold  touch  resting  upon 
her,  would  be  a  hateful  and  almost  unnatural  outrage.  Yet 
he  saw  all  around  him  people  closely  companioned  by  sorrow 
and  did  not  think  that  strange.  Sorrow  even  approached  very 
near  to  Rosamund  and  to  him  in  that  very  month  of  January, 
for  Beatrice  had  a  miscarriage  and  lost  her  baby.  She  said 
very  little  about  it,  but  Dion  believed  that  she  was  really 
stricken  to  the  heart.  He  was  very  fond  of  Beatrice,  he  almost 
loved  her;  yet  her  sorrow  was  only  a  shadow  passing  by  him, 
not  a  substance  pressing  upon  him.  And  that  fact,  which  he 
realized,  made  him  know  how  little  even  imagination  and  quiet 
affection  can  help  men  to  feel  the  pains  of  others.  The  heart 
knoweth  only  its  own  bitterness  and  the  bitterness  of  those 
whom  it  deeply  and  passionately  loves. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON"  January  the  fifteenth  Rosamund  put  on  the  gown 
which  had  been  bought  for  the  Carlton  dinner  but  not 
worn  at  it. 

Although  she  had  not  really  wanted  to  go  to  Mrs.  Chetwinde's 
party  she  looked  radiantly  buoyant,  and  like  one  almost  shin- 
ing with  expectation,  when  she  was  ready  to  start  for  Lowndes 
Square. 

"  You  ought  to  go  out  every  night,"  Dion  said,  as  he  put 
her  cloak  over  her  shoulders. 

"Why?" 

"  To  enjoy  and  give  enjoyment.  Merely  to  look  at  you  would 
make  the  dullest  set  of  people  in  London  wake  up  and  scin- 
tillate. Don't  tell  me  you're  not  looking  forward  to  it,  because 
I  couldn't  believe  you." 

"  Now  the  war-paint  is  on  I  confess  to  feeling  almost  eager 
for  the  fray.  How  nicely  you  button  it.  You  aren't  clumsy." 

"How  could  I  be  clumsy  in  doing  something  for  you? 
Where's  your  music?  " 

"  In  my  head.     Jennie  will  meet  us  there." 

Jennie  was  Rosamund's  accompanist,  a  clever  Irish  girl  who 
often  came  to  Little  Market  Street  to  go  through  things  with 
Rosamund. 


206  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  It  will  be  rather  delightful  singing  to  people  again,"  she 
added  in  a  joyous  voice  as  they  got  into  the  hired  carriage.  "  I 
hope  I've  really  improved." 

"How  you  love  a  thing  for  itself!  "  he  said,  as  they  drove 
off. 

"  I  think  that's  the  only  way  to  love." 

"  Of  course  it  is.  You  know  the  only  way  to  everything 
beautiful  and  sane.  What  I  have  learnt  from  you!  " 

"  Dion,"  she  said,  in  the  darkness,  "  I  think  you  are  rather 
a  dangerous  companion  for  me." 

"How  can  I  be?  " 

"  I'm  not  at  all  a  piece  of  perfection.  Take  care  you  don't 
teach  me  to  think  I  am." 

"  But  you're  the  least  conceited " 

"Hush,  you  encourager  of  egoism!"  she  interrupted 
seriously. 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  a  good  many  more  at  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde's." 

Dion  thought  he  had  been  a  true  prophet  half  an  hour  later 
when,  from  a  little  distance,  he  watched  and  listened  while 
Rosamund  was  singing  her  first  song.  Seeing  her  thus  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowd  he  awakened  to  the  fact  that  Robin  had 
changed  her  very  much.  She  still  looked  splendidly  young,- 
but  she  no  longer  looked  like  a  girl.  The  married  woman  and 
the  mother  were  there  quite  definitely.  Even  he  fancied  that 
he  heard  them  in  her  voice,  which  had  gained  in  some  way, 
perhaps  in  roundness,  in  mellowness.  This  might  be  the  result 
of  study;  he  was  inclined  to  believe  it  the  result  of  motherhood. 
She  was  wearing  ear-rings  —  tiny,  not  long  drooping  things; 
they  were  green,  small  emeralds;  and  he  remembered  how  he 
had  loved  her  better  when  he  saw  her  wearing  ear-rings  for 
the  first  time  in  Mr.  Darlington's  drawing-room.  How  definite 
she  was  in  a  crowd.  Crowds  effaced  ordinary  people,  but 
when  Rosamund  was  surrounded  she  always  seemed  to  be 
beautifully  emphasized,  to  be  made  more  perfectly  herself. 
She  did  not  take,  she  gave,  and  in  giving  showed  how  much 
she  had. 

She  was  giving  now  as  she  sang,  "  Caro  mio  ben." 

Towards  the  end  of  the  song,  when  Dion  was  deeply  in  it 
and  in  her  who  sang  it,  he  was  disturbed  by  a  woman's  whisper 
coming  from  close  behind  him.  He  did  not  catch  the  begin- 
ning of  what  was  communicated,  but  he  did  catch  the  end.  It 
was  this:  "  Over  there,  the  famous  Mrs.  Clarke." 


ECHO  207 

But  Mrs.  Clarke  was  in  Paris.  Daventry  had  told  him  so. 
Dion  looked  quickly  about  the  large  and  crowded  room,  but 
could  not  see  Mrs.  Clarke.  Then  he  glanced  behind  him  to 
see  the  whisperer,  and  beheld  a  hard-faced,  middle-aged  and 
very  well-known  woman  —  one  of  those  women  who,  by  dint 
of  perpetually  "  going  about,"  become  at  length  something  less 
than  human.  He  was  quite  sure  Mrs.  Brackenhurst  would  not 
make  a  mistake  about  anything  which  happened  at  a  party. 
She  might  fail  to  recognize  her  husband,  if  she  met  him  about 
her  house,  because  he  was  so  seldom  there;  she  would  not  fail 
to  recognize  the  heroine  of  a  resounding  divorce  case.  Mrs. 
Clarke  must  certainly  have  returned  from  Paris  and  be  some- 
where in  that  room,  listening  to  Rosamund  and  probably  watch- 
ing her.  Dion  scarcely  knew  whether  this  fact  made  him  sorry 
or  glad.  He  did  know,  however,  that  it  oddly  excited  him. 

When  "  Caro  mio  ben  "  was  ended  people  began  to  move. 
Rosamund  was  surrounded  and  congratulated,  and  Dion  saw 
Esme  Darlington  bending  to  her,  half  paternally,  half  gallantly, 
and  speaking  to  her  emphatically.  Mrs.  Chetwinde  drifted 
up  to  her;  and  three  or  four  young  men  hovered  near  to  her, 
evidently  desirous  of  putting  in  a  word.  The  success  of  her 
leaped  to  the  eye.  Dion  saw  it  and  glowed.  But  the  excite- 
ment in  him  persisted,  and  he  began  to  move  towards  the  far 
side  of  the  great  room  in  search  of  Mrs.  Clarke.  If  she  had 
just  come  in  she  would  probably  be  near  the  door  by  which  the 
pathetic  Echo  stood  on  her  pedestal  of  marble,  withdrawn  in 
her  punishment,  in  her  abasement  beautiful  and  wistful.  How 
different  was  Rosamund  from  Echo!  Dion  looked  across  at 
her  joyous  and  radiant  animation,  as  she  smiled  and  talked 
almost  with  the  eagerness  and  vitality  of  a  child;  and  he  had 
the  thought,  "How  goodness  preserves!"  Women  throng  the 
secret  rooms  of  the  vanity  specialists,  put  their  trust  in  pomades, 
in  pigments,  in  tinctures,  in  dyes;  and  the  weariness  and  the 
sin  become  lustrous,  perhaps,  but  never  are  hidden  or  even 
obscured.  His  Rosamund  trusted  in  a  wholesome  life,  with 
air  blowing  through  it,  with  sound  sleep  as  its  anodyne,  with 
purity  on  guard  at  its  door;  and  radiance  and  youth  sparkled 
up  in  her  like  fountain  spray  in  the  sunshine.  And  the  whole- 
someness  of  her  was  a  lure  to  the  many  even  in  a  drawing-room 
of  London.  He  saw  powdered  women,  women  with  darkened 
eyebrows,  and  touched-up  lips,  and  hair  that  had  forgotten  long 
ago  what  was  its  natural  color,  looking  at  her,  and  he  fancied 
there  was  a  dull  wonder  in  their  eyes.  Perhaps  they  were 


208  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

thinking:  "Yes,  that's  the  recipe  —  being  gay  in  goodness!  " 
And  perhaps  some  of  them  were  thinking,  too:  "We've  lost 
the  power  to  follow  that  recipe,  if  we  ever  had  it."  Poor 
women!  With  a  sort  of  exultation  he  pitied  them  and  their 
husbands.  A  chord  was  sounded  on  the  piano.  He  stood  still. 
The  loud  buzz  of  conversation  died  down.  Was  Rosamund 
going  to  sing  again  so  soon?  Perhaps  some  one  had  begged 
for  something  specially  beloved.  Jennie  was  playing  a  soft 
prelude  as  a  gentle  warning  to  a  few  of  those  who  seem  ever 
to  find  silence  a  physical  difficulty.  She  stopped,  and  began 
to  play  something  Dion  did  not  know,  something  very  modern 
in  its  strange  atmospheric  delicacy,  which  nevertheless  instantly 
transported  him  to  Greece.  He  was  there,  even  before  Rosa- 
mund began  to  sing  in  a  voice  that  was  hushed,  in  a  far-off 
voice,  not  antique,  but  the  voice  of  modernity,  prompted  by  a 
mind  looking  away  from  what  is  near  to  what  is  afar  and  is 
deeply  desired. 

"  A  crescent  sail  upon  the  sea, 
So  calm  and  fair  and  ripple-free 
You  wonder  storms  can  ever  be; 

A  shore  with  deep  indented  bays, 
And  o'er  the  gleaming  water-ways 
A  glimpse  of  Islands  in  the  haze; 

A  face  bronzed  dark  to  red  and  gold, 
With  mountain  eyes  that  seem  to  hold 
The  freshness  of  the  world  of  old ; 

A  shepherd's  crook,  a  coat  of  fleece, 
A  grazing  flock  —  the  sense  of  peace, 
The  long  sweet  silence  —  this  is  Greece." 

The  accompaniment  continued  for  a  moment  alone,  whisper- 
ing remoteness.  Then,  like  a  voice  far  off  in  a  blue  distance, 
there  came  again  from  Rosamund,  more  softly  and  with  less 
pressure : 

" The  sense  of  peace, 

The  long  sweet  silence  —  this  is  Greece ! 
This  is  Greece !  " 

It  was  just  then  that  Dion  saw  Mrs.  Clarke.  She  had,  per- 
haps, been  sitting  down;  or,  possibly,  some  one  had  been  stand- 
ing in  front  of  her  and  had  hidden  her  from  him;  for  she  was 
not  far  off,  and  he  wondered  sharply  why  he  had  not  seen  her 


ECHO  209 

till  now,  why,  till  now,  she  had  refrained  from  snatching  him 
away  from  his  land  of  the  early  morning.  There  was  to  him 
at  this  moment  something  actually  cruel  and  painful  in  her 
instant  suggestion  of  Stamboul.  Yet  she  was  not  looking  at 
him,  but  was  directing  upon  Rosamund  her  characteristic  gaze 
of  consideration,  in  which  there  was  a  peculiar  grave  thorough- 
ness. A  handsome,  fair  young  man,  with  a  very  red  weak 
mouth,  stood  close  to  her.  Echo  was  just  beyond.  Without 
speaking,  Mrs.  Clarke  continued  looking  at  Rosamund  intently, 
when  the  music  evaporated,  and  Greece  faded  away  into  the 
shining  of  that  distance  which  hides  our  dreams.  And  Dion 
noted  again,  with  a  faint  creeping  of  wonder  and  of  doubt,  the 
strange  haggardness  of  her  face,  which,  nevertheless,  he  had 
come  to  think  almost  beautiful. 

The  fair  young  man  spoke  to  her,  bending  and  looking  at 
her  eagerly.  She  turned  her  head  slowly,  and  as  if  reluctantly 
towards  him,  and  was  evidently  listening  to  what  he  said, 
listening  with  that  apparent  intentness  which  was  character- 
istic of  her.  She  was  dressed  in  black  and  violet,  and  wore  a 
large  knot  of  violets  in  her  corsage.  Round  her  throat  was 
clasped  an  antique  necklace  of  dull,  unshining  gold,  and  dim 
purple  stones,  which  looked  beautiful,  but  almost  weary  with 
age.  Perhaps  they  had  lain  for  years  in  some  dim  bazaar  of 
Stamboul,  forgotten  under  heaps  of  old  stuffs.  Dion  thought 
of  them  as  slumbering,  made  drowsy  and  finally  unconscious 
by  the  fumes  of  incense  and  the  exhalations  from  diapered 
perfume  vials.  As  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Clarke,  the  bare  and 
shining  vision  of  Greece,  evoked  by  the  song  Rosamund  had 
just  been  singing,  faded;  the  peculiar  almost  intellectually  deli- 
cate atmosphere  of  Greece  was  gone;  and  he  saw  for  a  moment 
the  umber  mystery  of  Stamboul,  lifted  under  tinted  clouds  of 
the  evening  beyond  the  waters  of  the  Golden  Horn;  the  great 
rounded  domes  and  tapering  speary  minarets  of  the  mosques, 
couchant  amid  the  shadows  and  the  trailing  and  gauzy  smoke- 
wreaths,  a  suggestion  of  dense  masses  of  cypresses,  those  trees 
of  the  night  which  only  in  the  night  can  be  truly  themselves, 
guarding  the  innumerable  graves  of  the  Turkish  cemeteries. 

From  that  moment  he  connected  Mrs.  Clarke  in  his  mind 
with  the  cypress.  Surely  she  must  have  spent  very  many 
hours  wandering  in  those  enormous  and  deserted  gardens  of 
the  dead,  where  the  very  dust  is  poignant,  and  the  cries  of  the 
sea  come  faintly  up  to  Allah's  children  crumbling  beneath  the 
stone  flowers  and  the  little  fezes  of  stone.  Mrs.  Clarke  must 


210  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

love  the  cypress,  for  about  her  there  was  an  atmosphere  which 
suggested  dimness  and  the  gathering  shadows  of  night. 

Greece  and  Stamboul,  the  land  of  the  early  morning  and 
the  wonder-city  of  twilight;  Rosamund  and  Mrs.  Clarke;  stand- 
ing there  for  a  moment,  in  the  midst  of  the  shifting  crowd, 
Dion  traveled,  compared,  connected  and  was  alone  in  the  soul's 
solitude. 

Then  Mrs.  Chetwinde  spoke  to  him,  and  he  saw  Bruce  Evelin 
in  the  distance  going  towards  Rosamund. 

Mrs.  Chetwinde  told  him  that  Rosamund  had  made  a  great 
advance. 

"  Now  that  she's  given  up  singing  professionally  she's  sing- 
ing better  than  ever.  That  Grecian  song  is  the  distilled  essence 
of  Greece  felt  in  our  new  way.  For  we've  got  our  new  way 
of  feeling  things.  Rosamund  tells  us  she  repeated  the  words 
to  Jennie  Stileman,  and  Jennie  had  them  set  by  a  young 
Athenian  who's  over  here  studying  English.  He  catches  the 
butterfly,  lets  it  flutter  for  a  moment  in  his  hand  and  go.  He 
doesn't  jab  a  pin  into  it  as  our  composers  would.  Oh,  there's 
Cynthia!  I  hope  she  heard  the  last  thing." 
'"Yes,  she  did." 

"Ah?" 

"  I  thought  Mrs.  Clarke  was  spending  January  in  Paris." 

"  She  came  back  to-day,  and  sent  round  to  ask  if  she  might 
come." 

Mrs.  Chetwinde  wandered  away,  insouciant  and  observant 
as  ever.  Even  at  her  own  parties  she  always  had  an  air  of 
faintly  detached  indifference,  never  bothered  about  how  "  it  " 
was  "  going."  If  it  chose  to  stop  it  could,  and  her  guests  must 
put  up  with  it. 

When  she  left  him  Dion  hesitated.  Mrs.  Clarke  had  just 
seen  him  and  sent  him  a  grave  nod  of  recognition.  Should 
he  go  to  her?  But  the  fair  young  man  was  still  at  her  side, 
was  still,  with  his  weak  red  mouth,  talking  into  her  ear.  Dion 
felt  a  strange  distaste  as  he  saw  those  moving  lips  under  the 
brushed-up,  almost  ridiculously  small,  golden  mustache;  and 
just  as  he  was  conscious  of  this  distaste  Mrs.  Clarke  got  rid 
of  the  young  man,  and  spoke  to  a  woman.  Then  she  moved 
forward  slowly.  Mr.  Chetwinde  spoke  to  her,  moving  his 
ample  fan-shaped  beard,  which  always  looked  Assyrian,  though 
he  was  profoundly  English  and  didn't  know  it.  She  drew 
nearer  to  Dion  as  she  answered  Mr.  Chetwinde,  but  in  a  wholly 
unconscious  manner.  To-night  she  looked  more  haggard  even 


ECHO  211 

than  usual,  no  doubt  because  of  the  journey  from  Paris.  But 
Mrs.  Chetwinde  had  once  said  of  her:  "  Cynthia  is  made  of 
iron."'  Could  that  be  true?  She  was  quite  close  to  Dion  now, 
and  he  was  aware  of  a  strange  faint  perfume  which  reminded 
him  of  Stamboul;  and  he  realized  here  in  Lowndes  Square 
that  Stamboul  was  genuinely  fascinating,  was  much  more  fas- 
cinating than  he  had  realized  when  he  was  in  it. 

Mrs.  Clarke  passed  him  without  looking  at  him,  and  he  felt 
sure  quite  unconscious  of  his  nearness  to  her.  Evidently  she 
had  forgotten  all  about  him.  Just  after  she  had  gone  by  he 
decided  that  of  course  he  ought  to  go  and  speak  to  her,  and 
that  to-night  he  must  introduce  Rosamund  to  her.  Not  to 
do  so  would  really  be  rude.  Daventry  was  not  there  to  be 
chivalrous.  The  illness  of  Beattie,  and  doubtless  his  own  dis- 
tress at  the  loss  of  his  unborn  child,  had  kept  him  away.  Dion 
thought  that  he  would  be  unchivalrous  if  he  now  neglected  to 
make  a  point  of  speaking  to  Mrs.  Clarke  and  of  introducing 
his  wife  to  her. 

Having  made  up  his  mind  on  this  he  turned  to  follow  Mrs. 
Clarke,  and  at  once  saw  that  Esme  Darlington,  that  smoother 
of  difficult  social  places,  was  before  him.  A  little  way  off  he 
saw  Mr.  Darlington,  with  Rosamund  well  but  delicately  in 
hand,  making  for  Mrs.  Clarke  somewhat  with  the  gait  of  Agag. 
In  a  moment  the  thing  was  done.  The  two  women  were  speak- 
ing to  each  other,  and  Rosamund  had  sent  to  Mrs.  Clarke  one 
of  her  inquiring  looks.  Then  they  sat  down  together  on  that 
red  sofa  to  which  Mrs.  Clarke  had  led  Dion  for  his  first  con- 
versation with  her.  Esme  Darlington  remained  standing  before 
it.  The  full  acquaintance  was  joined  at  last. 

Were  they  talking  about  the  baby?  Dion  wondered,  as  for 
a  moment  he  watched  them,  forgetting  his  surroundings.  Rosa- 
mund was  speaking  with  her  usual  swift  vivacity.  At  home 
she  was  now  often  rather  quiet,  moving,  Dion  sometimes 
thought,  in  an  atmosphere  of  wide  serenity;  but  in  society  she 
was  always  full  of  sunshine  and  eager  life.  Something  within 
her  leaped  up  responsively  at  the  touch  of  humanity,  and  to- 
night she  had  just  been  singing,  and  the  whole  of  her  was 
keenly  awake.  The  contrast  between  her  and  Mrs.  Clarke 
was  almost  startling:  her  radiant  vitality  emphasized  Mrs. 
Clarke's  curious,  but  perfectly  natural,  gravity;  the  rose  in  her 
cheeks,  the  yellow  of  her  hair,  the  gaiety  in  her  eyes,  drew  the 
attention  to  Mrs.  Clarke's  febrile  and  tense  refinement,  which 
seemed  to  have  worn  her  body  thin,  to  have  drained  the  luster 


212  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

out  of  her  hair,  to  have  fixed  the  expression  of  observant  dis- 
tress in  her  large  and  fearless  eyes.  Animal  spirits  played 
through  Rosamund  to-night;  from  Mrs.  Clarke  they  were  absent. 
Her  haggard  composure,  confronting  Rosamund's  pure  sparkle, 
suggested  the  comparison  of  a  hidden  and  secret  pool,  steel 
colored  in  the  depths  of  a  sunless  forest,  with  a  rushing  moun- 
tain stream  leaping  towards  the  sea  in  a  tangle  of  sun-rays. 
Dion  realized  for  the  first  time  that  Mrs.  Clarke  never  laughed, 
and  scarcely  ever  smiled.  He  realized,  too,  that  she  really 
was  beautiful.  For  Rosamund  did  not  "kill"  her;  her  deli- 
cacy of  line  and  colorless  clearness  stood  the  test  of  nearness 
to  Rosamund's  radiant  beauty.  Indeed  Rosamund  somehow 
enhanced  the  peculiarly  interesting  character  of  Mrs.  Clarke's 
personality,  which  was  displayed,  but  with  a  sort  of  shadowy 
reticence,  in  her  physique,  and  at  the  same  time  underlined  its 
melancholy.  So  might  a  climbing  rose,  calling  to  the  blue  with 
its  hundred  blossoms,  teach  something  of  the  dark  truth  of 
the  cypress  through  which  its  branches  are  threaded. 

But  Mrs.  Clarke  would  certainly  never  be  Rosamund's  stair- 
way towards  heaven. 

Some  one  he  knew  spoke  to  Dion,  and  he  found  himself 
involved  in  a  long  conversation;  people  moving  hid  the  two 
women  from  him;  but  presently  the  piano  sounded  again,  and 
Rosamund  sang  that  first  favorite  of  hers  and  of  Dion's,  the 
"  Heart  ever  faithful,"  recalling  him  to  a  dear  day  at  Portofino 
where,  in  a  cozy  room,  guarded  by  the  wintry  woods  and  the 
gray  sea  of  Italy,  he  had  felt  the  lure  of  a  faithful  spirit,  and 
known  the  basis  of  clean  rock  on  which  Rosamund  had  built 
up  her  house  of  life.  Bruce  Evelin  stood  near  to  him  while  she 
sang  it  now,  and  once  their  eyes  met  and  exchanged  affectionate 
thoughts  of  the  singer,  which  went  gladly  out  of  the  gates 
eager  to  be  read  and  understood. 

When  the  melody  of  Bach  was  finished  many  people,  impelled 
thereto  by  the  hearty  giant  whom  Mrs.  Chetwinde  had  most 
strangely  married,  went  downstairs  to  the  black-and-white 
dining-room  to  drink  champagne  and  eat  small  absurdities  of 
various  kinds.  A  way  was  opened  for  Dion  to  Mrs.  Clarke, 
who  was  still  on  the  red  sofa.  Dion  noticed  the  fair  young 
man  hovering,  and  surely  with  intention  in  his  large  eyes,  in 
the  middle  distance,  but  he  went  decisively  forward,  took  Mrs. 
Clarke's  listless  yet  imperative  hand,  and  asked  her  if  she 
would  care  to  go  down  with  him. 

"  Oh  no;  I  never  eat  at  odd  times." 


ECHO  213 

"  Do  you  ever  eat  at  all?  " 

"  Yes,   at  my  chosen  moments.     Do  find   another  excuse." 

"  For  going  to  eat?  " 

"  Or  drink." 

His  reply  was  to  sit  down  beside  her.  Mrs.  Chetwinde's 
dining-room  was  large.  People  probably  knew  that,  for  the 
drawing-room  emptied  slowly.  Even  the  fair  young  man  went 
away  to  seek  consolation  below.  Rosamund  had  descended 
with  Bruce  Evelin  and  Esme  Darlington.  There  was  a  pleas- 
ant and  almost  an  intimate  hush  in  the  room. 

"  I  heard  you  were  to  be  in  Paris  this  month,"  Dion  said. 

"  I  came  back  to-day." 

"  Aren't  you  tired  ?  " 

"  No.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Jimmy,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"  Please  do,"  said  Dion  rather  earnestly,  struck  by  a  sort 
of  little  pang  as  he  remembered  the  boy's  urgent  insistence 
that  his  visitor  was  to  come  again  soon. 

"  I'm  not  quite  satisfied  with  his  tutor." 

She  began  to  ask  Dion's  advice  with  regard  to  the  boy's 
bringing  up,  explaining  that  her  husband  had  left  that  matter 
in  her  hands. 

"  He's  very  sorry  and  ashamed  now,  poor  man,  about  his 
attacks  on  me,  and  tries  to  make  up  from  a  distance  by  trusting 
me  completely  with  Jimmy.  I  don't  bear  him  any  malice,  but 
of  course  the  link  between  us  is  smashed  and  can't  ever  be 
resoldered.  I'm  asking  you  what  I  can't  ask  him  because  he's 
a  weak  man." 

The  implication  was  obvious  and  not  disagreeable  to  Dion. 
He  gave  advice,  and  as  he  did  so  thought  of  Robin  at  ten. 

Mrs.  Clarke  was  a  remarkably  sensible  woman,  and  agreed 
with  his  views  on  boys,  and  especially  with  his  theory,  sud- 
denly discovered  in  the  present  heat  of  conversation,  that  to  give 
them  "  backbone  "  was  of  even  more  importance  than  to  develop 
their  intellectual  side.  She  spoke  of  her  son  in  a  way  that 
was  almost  male. 

"  He  mustn't  be  small,"  she  said,  evidently  comprehending 
both  soul  and  body  in  the  assertion.  "  D'you  know  Lord 
Brayfield  who  was  talking  to  me  just  now?  " 

"  You  mean  a  fair  man?  " 

"  Yes,  with  a  meaningless  mouth.  Jimmy  mustn't  grow  up 
into  anything  of  that  kind." 

The  conversation  took  a  decidedly  Doric  turn  as  Mrs.  Clarke 


214  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

developed  her  ideas  of  what  a  man  ought  to  be.  In  the  midst 
of  it  Dion  remembered  Dumeny,  and  could  not  help  saying: 

"  But  that  type  " —  they  had  been  speaking  of  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  Rosamund's  type  of  man,  once  described  by  her  as 
"  a  strong  soul  in  a  strong  body,  and  a  soft  heart  but  not  a 
softy's  heart " — "  is  almost  the  direct  opposite  of  the  artistic 
type  of  man,  isn't  it?  " 

Her  large  eyes  looked  "  Well  ?  "  at  him,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  I  thought  you  cared  so  very  much  for  knowledge  and  taste 
in  a  man." 

"  So  I  do.  But  Jimmy  will  never  have  knowledge  and  taste. 
He's  the  boisterous  athletic  type." 

"And  you're  glad?" 

"  Not  sorry,  at  any  rate.  He'll  just  be  a  thorough  man,  if 
he's  brought  up  properly,  and  that  will  do  very  well." 

"  I  think  you're  very  complex,"  Dion  said,  still  thinking  of 
Dumeny. 

"  Because  I  make  friends  in  so  many  directions?  " 

"  Well  —  yes,  partly,"  he  answered,  wondering  if  she  was 
reading  his  thought. 

"  Jimmy's  not  a  friend  but  my  boy.  I  know  very  well  Mon- 
sieur Dumeny,  for  instance,  whom  you  saw,  and  I  dare  say 
wondered  about,  at  the  trial;  but  I  couldn't  bear  that  my  boy 
should  develop  into  that  type  of  man.  You'll  say  I  am  a 
treacherous  friend,  perhaps.  It  might  be  truer  to  say  I  was 
born  acquisitive  and  too  mental.  I  never  really  liked  Monsieur 
Dumeny;  but  I  liked  immensely  his  musical  talent,  his  knowl- 
edge, his  sure  taste,  and  his  power  of  making  almost  everything 
flower  into  interestingness.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  Some 
people  take  light  from  your  day;  others  add  to  its  light  and 
paint  in  wonderful  shadows.  If  I  went  to  the  bazaars  alone 
they  were  Eastern  shops;  if  I  went  with  Dumeny  they  were  the 
Arabian  Nights.  Do  you  understand?" 

"  Yes." 

"  The  touch  of  his  mind  on  a  thing  gave  it  life.  It  stirred. 
One  could  look  into  its  heart  and  see  the  pulse  beating.  I  care 
to  do  that,  so  I  cared  to  go  about  with  Monsieur  Dumeny. 
But  one  doesn't  love  people  for  that  sort  of  thing.  In  the 
people  one  loves  one  needs  character,  the  right  fiber  in  the 
soul.  You  ought  to  know  that." 

"Why?  "  he  asked,  almost  startled. 

"  I  was  introduced  to  your  wife  just  now." 

"Oh!  " 


ECHO  215 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  Dion  said: 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  met." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  more 
husky  even  than  usual.  "  She  sang  that  Greek  song  quite 
beautifully.  I've  just  been  telling  her  that  I  want  to  show 
her  some  curious  songs  I  have  heard  in  Turkey,  and  Asia 
Minor,  at  Brusa.  There  was  one  man  who  used  to  sing  to  me 
at  Brusa  outside  the  Mosquee  Verte.  Dumeny  took  down  the 
melody  for  me." 

"Did  you  like  the  '  Heart  ever  faithful '  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it's  excellent  in  that  sledge-hammer  sort  of  way, 
a  superb  example  of  the  direct.  Stamboul  is  very  indirect. 
Perhaps  it  has  colored  my  taste.  It's  full  of  mystery.  Bach 
isn't  mysterious,  except  now  and  then  —  in  rare  bits  of  his 
passion  music,  for  instance." 

"  I  wonder  if  my  wife  could  sing  those  Turkish  songs." 

"  We  must  see.     She  sang  that  Greek  song  perfectly." 

"  But  she's  felt  Greece,"  said  Dion.  "  And  I  think  there's 
something  in  her  that " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  only  mean,"  he  said,  with  reserve  in  his  voice,  "  that  I 
think  there's  something  of  Greece  in  her." 

"  She's  got  a  head  like  a  Caryatid." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  much  less  reserve.     "  Hasn't  she?  " 

Mrs.  Clarke  had  paid  to  his  Rosamund  two  noble  compli- 
ments, he  thought;  and  he  liked  her  way  of  payment,  casual 
yet  evidently  sincere,  the  simple  utterance  of  two  thoughts  in 
a  mind  that  knew.  He  felt  a  sudden  glow  of  real  friendship 
for  her,  and,  on  the  glow  as  it  were,  she  said : 

"  Jimmy's  quite  mad  about  you." 

"Still?"  he  blurted  out,  and  was  instantly  conscious  of  a 
false  step. 

"He's  got  an  extraordinary  memory  for  a  biceps,  and  then 
Jenkins  talks  about  you  to  him." 

As  they  went  on  talking  people  began  coming  up  from  the 
black-and-white  dining-room.  Dion  said  he  would  come  to 
see  Jimmy  again,  would  visit  the  gymnasium  in  the  Harrow 
Road  one  day  when  Jimmy  was  taking  his  lesson.  Did  Jimmy 
ever  go  on  a  Saturday?  Yes,  he  was  going  next  Saturday  at 
four.  Dion  would  look  in  next  Saturday.  Now  Mrs.  Clarke 
and  Rosamund  had  met,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  evidently  admired 
Rosamund  in  two  ways,  Dion  felt  quite  different  about  his 
acquaintance  with  her.  If  it  had  already  been  agreed  that 


216  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Mrs.  Clarke  should  show  Rosamund  Turkish  songs,  there  was 
no  need  for  further  holding  back.  The  relief  which  had  come 
to  him  made  Dion  realize  how  very  uncomfortable  he  had  been 
about  Mrs.  Clarke  in  the  immediate  past.  He  was  now  thor- 
oughly and  cordially  at  his  ease  with  her.  They  talked  till 
the  big  drawing-room  was  full  again,  till  Rosamund  reappeared 
in  the  midst  of  delightful  friends;  talked  of  Jimmy's  future, 
of  the  new  tutor  who  must  be  found, —  a  real  man,  not  a  mere 
bloodless  intellectual, —  and,  again,  of  Constantinople,  to  which 
Mrs.  Clarke  would  return  in  April,  against  the  advice  of  her 
friends,  and  in  spite  of  Esme  Darlington's  almost  frantic  pro- 
tests, "  because  I  love  it,  and  because  I  don't  choose  to  be  driven 
out  of  any  place  by  liars."  Her  last  remark  to  him,  and  he 
thought  it  very  characteristic  of  her,  was  this: 

"  Liberty's  worth  bitterness.  I  would  buy  it  at  the  price 
of  all  the  tears  in  my  body." 

It  was,  perhaps,  also  very  characteristic  that  she  made  the 
statement  with  a  perfectly  quiet  gravity  which  almost  con- 
cealed the  evidently  tough  inflexibility  beneath. 

And  then,  when  people  were  ready  to  go,  Rosamund  sang 
Brahm's  "  Wiegenlied." 

"  Guten  Aben,  gut'  Nacht, 

Tu'die  Auglein  zu 
Von  Engeln  bewacht, 

Schlaf  in  guter  Ruh 
Morgen  fruh  wenn  Gott  will, 
Wirst  du  wieder  geweckt." 

Dion  stood  beside  Bruce  Evelin  while  Rosamund  was  singing 
this.  She  sang  it  with  a  new  and  wonderful  tenderness  which 
had  come  to  her  with  Robin,  and  in  her  face,  as  she  sang,  there 
was  a  new  and  wonderful  tenderness.  The  meaning  of  Robin 
in  Rosamund's  life  was  expressed  to  Dion  by  Rosamund  in 
this  song  as  it  had  never  been  expressed  before.  Perhaps  it 
was  expressed  also  to  Bruce  Evelin,  for  Dion  saw  tears  in  his 
eyes  almost  brimming  over,  and  his  face  was  contracted,  as  if 
only  by  a  strong,  even  a  violent,  effort  he  was  able  to  preserve 
his  self-control. 

As  people  began  to  go  away  Dion  found  himself  close  to 
Esme  Darlington. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Darlington,  with  unusual  aban- 
don, "  Rosamund  has  made  a  really  marvelous  advance  — 
marvelous.  In  that '  Wiegenlied  '  she  reached  high-water  mark. 


ECHO  217 

No  one  could  have  sung  it  more  perfectly.  What  has  hap- 
pened to  her  ?  " 

"  Robin,"  said  Dion,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  and  speak- 
ing with  almost  stern  conviction. 

"  Robin?  "  said  Mr.  Darlington,  with  lifted  eyebrows. 

Then  people  intervened. 

In  the  carriage  going  home  Rosamund  was  very  happy.  She 
confessed  to  the  pleasure  her  success  had  given  her. 

"  I  quite  loved  singing  to-night,"  she  said.  "  That  song 
about  Greece  was  for  you." 

"  I  know,  and  the  '  Wiegenlied  '  was  for  Robin." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

She  was  silent;  then  her  voice  came  out  of  the  darkness: 

"  For  Robin,  but  he  didn't  know  it." 

"  Some  day  he  will  know  it." 

Not  a  word  was  said  about  Airs.  Clarke  that  night. 

On  the  following  day,  however,  Dion  asked  Rosamund  how 
she  had  liked  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  I  saw  you  talking  to  her  with  the  greatest  animation." 

"  Was  I  ?  "  said  Rosamund. 

"  And  she  told  me  it  had  been  arranged  that  she  should  — 
no,  I  don't  mean  that;  but  she  said  she  wanted  to  show  you 
some  wonderful  Turkish  songs." 

"Did  she?     What  a  beautiful  profile  she  has!  " 

"  Ah,  you  noticed  that!  " 

"  Oh  yes,  directly." 

"Didn't  she  mention  the  Turkish  songs?" 

"  I  believe  she  did,  but  only  in  passing,  casually.  D'you 
know,  Dion,  I've  an  idea  that  Greece  is  our  country,  not  Turkey 
at  all.  You  hate  Constantinople,  and  I  shall  never  see  it, 
I'm  sure.  We  are  Greeks,  and  Robin  has  to  be  a  Greek,  too, 
in  one  way  —  a  true  Englishman,  of  course,  as  well.  Do  you 
remember  the  Doric  boy?  " 

And  off  went  the  conversation  to  the  hill  of  Drouva,  and 
never  came  back  to  Turkey. 

When  Friday  dawned  Dion  thought  of  his  appointment  for 
Saturday  afternoon  at  the  gymnasium  in  the  Harrow  Road, 
and  began  to  wish  he  had  not  made  it.  Rosamund  had  not 
mentioned  Mrs.  Clarke  again,  and  he  began  to  fear  that  she 
had  not  really  liked  her,  although  her  profile  was  beautiful. 
If  Rosamund  had  not  liked  Mrs.  Clarke,  his  cordial  enthusiasm 
at  T.Irs.  Chetwinde's  —  in  retrospect  he  felt  that  his  attitude 
and  manner  must  have  implied  that  —  had  been  premature, 


218  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

even,  perhaps,  unfortunate.  He  wished  he  knew  just  what 
impression  Mrs.  Clarke  had  made  upon  Rosamund,  but  some- 
thing held  him  back  from  asking  her.  He  had  asked  her 
already  once,  but  somehow  the  conversation  had  deviated  — 
was  it  to  Mrs.  Clarke's  profile?  —  and  he  had  not  received  a 
direct  answer.  Perhaps  that  was  his  fault.  But  anyhow  he 
must  go  to  the  gymnasium  on  the  morrow.  To  fail  in  doing 
that  after  all  that  had  happened,  or  rather  that  had  not  hap- 
pened, in  connexion  with  Mrs.  Clarke  would  be  really  rude. 
He  did  not  say  anything  about  the  gymnasium  to  Rosamund 
on  Friday,  but  on  the  Saturday  he  told  her  what  had  been 
arranged. 

"  Her  son,  Jimmy  Clarke,  has  taken  a  boyish  fancy  to  me, 
it  seems.  I  said  I'd  look  in  and  see  his  lesson  just  for  once." 

"  Is  he  a  nice  boy?  " 

"  Yes,  first-rate,  I  should  think,  rather  a  pickle,  and  likely 
to  develop  into  an  athlete.  The  father  is  awfully  ashamed  now 
of  what  he  did  —  that  horrible  case,  I  mean  —  and  is  trying 
to  make  up  for  it." 

"How?"  said  Rosamund  simply. 

"  By  giving  her  every  chance  with  the  boy." 

"  I'm  glad  the  child  likes  you." 

"  I've  only  seen  him  once." 

"  Twice  won't  kill  his  liking,"  she  returned  affectionately. 

And  then  she  went  out  of  the  room.  She  always  had  plenty 
to  do.  Small  though  he  was,  Robin  was  a  marvelous  consumer 
of  his  mother's  time. 

When  Dion  got  to  the  gymnasium  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Jimmy 
were  already  there,  and  Jimmy,  in  flannels  and  a  white  sweater, 
his  dark  hair  sticking  up  in  disorder,  and  his  face  scarlet  with 
exertion,  was  performing  feats  with  an  exerciser  fixed  to  the 
wall,  while  Mrs.  Clarke,  seated  on  a  hard  chair  in  front  of  a 
line  of  heavy  weights  and  dumb-bells,  was  looking  on  with 
concentrated  attention.  Jenkins  was  standing  in  front  of 
Jimmy,  loudly  directing  his  movements  with  a  stentorian: 
"  One  —  two  —  one  —  two  —  one  —  two !  Keep  it  up !  No 
slackening !  Put  some  guts  into  it,  sir !  One  —  two  —  one  — 
two!" 

As  Dion  came  in  Mrs.  Clarke  looked  round  and  nodded; 
Jimmy  stared,  unable  to  smile  because  his  mouth  and  lower 
jaw  were  working,  and  he  had  no  superfluous  force  to  spare 
for  polite  efforts;  and  Jenkins  uttered  a  gruff,  "  Good  day, 
sir." 


ECHO  219 

"  How  are  you,  Jenkins  ?  "  returned  Dion,  in  his  most  off- 
hand manner. 

Then  he  jerked  his  hand  at  Jimmy  with  an  encouraging  smile, 
went  over  to  Mrs.  Clarke,  shook  her  hand  and  remained  stand- 
ing beside  her. 

"Do  you  think  he's  doing  it  well?"  she  murmured,  after 
a  moment. 

"  Stunningly." 

"  Hasn't  he  broadened  in  the  chest?  " 

"Rather!" 

She  looked  strangely  febrile  and  mental  in  the  midst  of  the 
many  appliances  for  developing  the  body.  Rosamund,  with 
her  splendid  physique  and  glowing  health,  would  have  crowned 
the  gymnasium  appropriately,  have  looked  like  the  divine 
huntress  transplanted  to  a  modern  city  where  still  the  cult  of 
the  body  drew  its  worshipers.  The  Arcadian  mountains  — 
Olympia  in  Elis, —  Jenkins's  "  gym  "  in  the  Harrow  Road  — 
differing  shrines  but  the  cult  was  the  same.  Only  the  condi- 
tions of  worship  were  varied.  Dion  glanced  down  at  Mrs. 
Clarke.  Never  had  she  seemed  more  curiously  exotic.  Yet 
she  did  not  look  wholly  out  of  place;  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  a  perfectly  natural  person  never  looks  wholly  out  of  place 
anywhere. 

"  Face  to  the  wall,  sir!  "  cried  Jenkins. 

Jimmy  found  time  for  a  breathless  and  half-inquiring  smile 
at  Dion  as  he  turned  and  prepared  for  the  most  difficult  feat. 

"  His  jaw  always  does  something  extraordinary  in  this  exer- 
cise," said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  It  seems  to  come  out  and  go  in 
again  with  a  click.  Jenkins  says  it's  because  Jimmy  gets  his 
strength  from  there." 

'  I  know.     Mine  used  to  do  just  the  same." 
Jimmy  doesn't  mind.     It  amuses  him." 
That's  the  spirit!  " 
He  finishes  with  this." 
Already?"  said  Dion,  surprised. 

You  must  have  been  a  little  late.     How  did  you  come  ?  " 
On  my  bicycle.     I  had  a  puncture.     That  must  have  been 
it.     And  there  was  a  lot  of  traffic." 

"Keep  it  up,  sir!  "  roared  Jenkins  imperatively.  "What's 
the  matter  with  that  left  arm  ?  " 

Click  went  Jimmy's  lower  jaw. 

"Dear  little  chap!"  muttered  Dion,  full  of  sympathetic 
interest.  "  He's  doing  splendidly." 


220  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  really  think  so?" 

"  Couldn't  be  better." 

"  You  understand  boys?  " 

"  Better  than  I  understand  women,  I  expect,"  Dion  returned, 
with  a  sudden  thought  of  Rosamund  at  home  and  the  wonderful 
Turkish  songs  Mrs.  Clarke  wished  to  show  to  her. 

Mrs.  Clarke  said  nothing,  and  just  at  that  moment  Jenkins 
announced : 

"  That'll  do  for  to-day,  sir." 

In  a  flood  of  perspiration  Jimmy  turned  round,  redder  than 
ever,  his  chest  heaving,  his  mouth  open,  and  his  eyes,  but  with- 
out any  conceit,  asking  for  a  word  of  praise  from  Dion,  who 
went  to  clap  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Capital!  Hallo!  What  muscles  we're  getting!  Eh, 
Jenkins?  " 

"  Master  Jimmy's  not  doing  badly,  sir.  He  puts  his  heart 
into  it.  That  I  must  say." 

Jimmy  shone  through  the  red  and  the  perspiration. 

"  He  sticks  it,"  continued  Jenkins,  in  his  loud  voice. 
"  Without  grit  there's  nothing  done.  That's  what  I  always 
tell  my  pupils." 

"  I  say  " —  began  Jimmy,  at  last  finding  a  small  voice  — 
"  I  say,  Mr.  Leith,  you  haven't  hurried  over  it." 

"Over  what?" 

"  Letting  me  see  you  again.     Why,  it's " 

"  Run  along  to  the  bath,  sir.  You've  got  to  have  it  before 
you  cool  down,"  interposed  the  merciless  Jenkins. 

And  Jimmy  made  off  with  an  instant  obedience  which  showed 
his  private  opinion  of  the  god  who  was  training  him. 

When  he  was  gone  Jenkins  turned  to  Dion  and  looked  him 
over. 

"  Haven't  seen  much  of  you,  sir,  lately,"  he  remarked. 

"  No,  I've  been  busy,"  returned  Dion,  feeling  slightly  un- 
comfortable as  he  remembered  that  the  reason  for  his  absence 
from  the  Harrow  Road  was  listening  to  the  conversation. 

"  Going  to  have  a  round  with  the  gloves  now  you  are  here, 
sir?  "  pursued  Jenkins. 

Dion  looked  at  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  Well,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  he  said,  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Just  as  you  like,  sir." 

"  Do,  Mr.  Leith,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  getting  up  from  the 
hard  chair,  and  standing  close  to  the  medicine  ball  with  her 


ECHO  221 

back  to  the  vaulting-horse.  "  Jimmy  and  I  are  going  in  a 
moment.  You  mustn't  bother  about  us." 

"  Well,  but  how  are  you  going  home  ?  " 

"  We  shall  walk.  Of  course  have  your  boxing.  It  will  do 
you  good." 

"  You're  right  there,  ma'am,"  said  Jenkins,  with  a  sort  of 
stern  approval.  "  Mr.  Leith's  been  neglecting  his  exercises 
lately." 

"  Oh,  I've  been  doing  a  good  deal  in  odd  times  with  the 
Rifle  Corps." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  sir." 

"  All  right,  I'll  go  and  change,"  said  Dion,  who  always  kept 

a  singlet  and  flannels  at  the  gymnasium.  "  Then "  he 

turned  to  Mrs.  Clarke  as  if  about  to  say  good-by. 

"  Oh,  Jimmy  will  want  to  see  you  for  a  moment  after  his 
bath.  We'll  say  good-by  then." 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Dion,  and  went  off 
to  the  dressing  cubicles. 

When  he  returned  ready  for  the  fray,  with  his  arms  bared 
to  the  shoulder,  he  found  Jimmy,  in  trousers  and  an  Eton 
jacket,  with  still  damp  hair  sleeked  down  on  his  head,  waiting 
with  his  mother,  but  not  to  say  good-by. 

"  We  aren't  going,"  he  announced,  in  a  voice  almost  shrill 
with  excitement,  as  Dion  came  into  the  gymnasium.  "  The 
mater  was  all  for  a  trot  home,  but  Jenkins  wishes  me  to  stay. 
He  says  it'll  be  a  good  lesson  for  me.  I  mean  to  be  a  boxer." 

"Why  not?"  observed  the  great  voice  of  Jenkins.  "It's 
the  best  sport  in  the  world  bar  none." 

"There!"  said  Jimmy.  "And  if  I  can't  be  anything  else 
I'll  be  a  bantam,  that's  what  I'll  be." 

"  Oh,  you'll  grow,  sir,  no  doubt.  We  may  see  you  among 
the  heavy-weights  yet." 

"  What's  Mr.  Leith?  Is  he  a  heavy-weight?"  vociferated 
Jimmy.  "  Just  look  at  his  arms." 

"  You'll  see  him  use  them  in  a  minute,"  observed  Jenkins, 
covering  Dion  with  a  glance  of  almost  grim  approval,  "  and 
then  you  can  judge  for  yourself." 

"  You  can  referee  us,  Jimmy,"  said  Dion,  smiling,  as  he 
pulled  on  the  gloves. 

"  I  say,  by  Jove,  though !  "  said  Jimmy,  looking  suddenly 
overwhelmed  and  very  respectful. 

He  shook  his  head  and  blushed,  then  abruptly  grinned. 


222  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  The  mater  had  better  do  that." 

They  all  laughed  except  Mrs.  Clarke.  Even  Jenkins  un- 
bent, and  his  bass  "  Ha  ha !  "  rang  through  the  large  vaulted 
room.  Mrs.  Clarke  smiled  faintly,  scarcely  changing  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes.  She  looked  unusually  intent  and,  when 
the  smile  was  gone,  more  than  usually  grave. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  our  staying  just  for  a  few  minutes," 
she  said  to  Dion.  "  You  see  what  he  is!  " 

She  looked  at  her  boy,  but  not  with  deprecation. 

"  Of  course  not,  but  I'm  afraid  it  will  bore  you." 

"  Oh  no,  it  won't.     I  like  to  see  skill  of  any  kind." 

She  glanced  at  his  arms. 

"  I'll  get  out  of  your  way.     Come,  Jimmy!  " 

She  took  him  by  the  arm  and  went  back  to  the  hard  chair, 
while  Dion  and  Jenkins  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  up  op- 
posite to  one  another. 

"  Have  you  got  a  watch,  Master  Jimmy?  "  said  Jenkins,  look- 
ing over  his  shoulder  at  his  pupil. 

"  Rather!  "  piped  Jimmy. 

"  Well,  then,  you'd  better  time  us  if  you  don't  referee  us." 

Jimmy  sprang  away  from  his  mother. 

"  Keep  out  of  our  road,  or  you  may  chance  to  get  a  kidney 
punch  that'll  wind  you.  Better  stand  here.  That's  it.  Three- 
minute  rounds.  Keep  your  eye  on  the  watch." 

"  Am  I  to  say  '  Go '?  "  almost  whispered  Jimmy,  tense  with  a 
fearful  importance  such  as  Caesar  and  Napoleon  never  felt. 

"  Who  else  ?  You  don't  expect  us  to  order  ourselves  about, 
do  you  ?  " 

After  a  pause  Jimmy  murmured,  "  No  "  in  a  low  voice.  So 
might  a  mortal  whisper  a  reply  when  interrogated  from  Olym- 
pus as  to  his  readiness  to  be  starter  at  a  combat  of  the  immortal 
gods. 

"  Now,  then,  watch  in  hand  and  no  favoritism !  "  bellowed 
Jenkins,  whose  sense  of  humor  was  as  boisterous  as  his  firm- 
ness was  grim.  "  Are  we  ready?  " 

Dion  and  he  shook  hands  formally  and  lifted  their  arms,  gaz- 
ing at  each  other  warily.  Mrs.  Clarke  leaned  forward  in  the 
chair  which  stood  among  the  dumb-bells.  Jimmy  perspired 
and  his  eyes  became  round.  He  had  his  silver  watch  tight  in 
his  right  fist.  Jenkins  suddenly  turned  his  head  and  stared 
with  his  shallow  and  steady  blue  eyes,  looking  down  from  Olym- 
pus upon  the  speck  of  a  mortal  far  below. 


ECHO  223 

"  Go!  "  piped  Jimmy,  in  the  voice  of  an  ardent,  but  awe- 
struck mouse. 

Homeric  was  that  combat  in  the  Harrow  Road;  to  its  starter 
and  timekeeper  a  contest  of  giants,  awful  in  force,  in  skill,  in 
agility,  in  endurance.  Dion  boxed  quite  at  his  best  that  day, 
helped  by  his  gallery.  He  fought  to  win,  but  he  didn't  win. 
Nobody  won,  for  there  was  no  knock-out  blow  given  and  taken, 
and,  when  appealed  to  for  a  decision  on  points,  Jimmy,  breath- 
ing stertorously  from  excitement,  was  quite  unable  to  give  the 
award.  He  could  only  stare  at  the  two  glorious  heroes  before 
him  and  drop  the  silver  watch,  glass  downwards  of  course,  on 
the  floor,  where  its  tinkle  told  of  destruction.  Later  on,  when 
he  spoke,  he  was  able  to  say: 

"  By  Jove!  "  which  he  presently  amplified  into,  "  I  say,  mater, 
by  Jove  —  eh,  wasn't  it,  though  ?  " 

"  Not  so  bad,  sir !  "  said  Jenkins  to  Dion,  after  the  latter 
had  taken  the  shower  bath.  "  You  aren't  as  stale  as  I  expected 
to  find  you,  not  near  as  stale.  But  I  hope  you'll  keep  it  up 
now  you've  started  with  it  again." 

And  Dion  promised  he  would,  put  his  bicycle  on  the  top  of  a 
fourwheeler,  sent  it  off  to  Westminster,  and  walked  as  far  as 
Claridge's  with  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Jimmy. 

The  boy  made  him  feel  tremendously  intimate  with  Mrs. 
Clarke.  The  hero-worship  he  was  receiving,  the  dancing  of 
the  blood  through  his  veins,  the  glow  of  hard  exercise,  the  ver- 
dict of  Jenkins  on  his  physical  condition  —  all  these  things  com- 
bined spurred  him  to  a  joyous  exuberance  in  which  body  and 
mind  seemed  to  run  like  a  matched  pair  of  horses  in  perfect  ac- 
cord. Although  not  at  all  a  conceited  man,  the  feeling  that 
he  was  being  admired,  even  reverenced,  was  delightful  to  him, 
and  warmed  his  heart  towards  the  jolly  small  boy  who  kept 
along  by  his  side  through  the  busy  streets.  He  and  Jimmy 
talked  in  a  comradely  spirit,  while  Mrs.  Clarke  seemed  to  lis- 
ten like  one  who  has  tilings  to  learn.  She  was  evidently  a 
capital  walker  in  spite  of  her  delicate  appearance.  To-day 
Dion  began  to  believe  in  her  iron  health,  and,  in  his  joy  of  the 
body,  he  liked  to  think  of  it.  After  all  delicacy,  even  in  a 
woman,  was  a  fault  —  a  fault  of  the  body,  a  sort  of  fretful  im- 
perfection. 

"  Are  you  strong?  "  he  said  to  her,  when  Jimmy's  voice  ceased 
for  a  moment  to  demand  from  him  information  or  to  pour  upon 
him  direct  statement. 


224  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Oh  yes.  I've  never  been  seriously  ill  in  my  life.  Don't  I 
look  strong?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  think  you  do,  but  I  feel  as  if  you  are." 

"  It's  the  wiry  kind  of  strength,  I  suppose." 

"  The  mater's  a  stayer,"  quoth  Jimmy,  and  forthwith  took 
up  the  wondrous  tale  with  his  hero,  who  began  to  consult  him 
seriously  on  the  question  of  "  points." 

"  If  you'd  had  to  give  a  decision,  Jimmy,  which  of  us  would 
have  got  it,  Jenkins  or  I  ?  " 

Jimmy  looked  very  grave  and  earnest. 

"It's  jolly  difficult  to  tell  a  thing  like  that,  isn't  it?"  he 
said,  after  a  longish  pause.  "  You  see,  you're  both  so  jolly 
strong,  aren't  you?  " 

His  dark  eyes  gazed  at  the  bulk  of  Dion. 

"  Well,  which  is  the  quicker?  "  demanded  Dion. 

But  Jimmy  was  not  to  be  drawn. 

"  I  think  you're  both  as  quick  as  —  as  cats,"  he  returned 
diplomatically,  seeking  anxiously  for  the  genuine  sporting  com- 
parison that  would  be  approved  at  the  ring-side.  "  Don't  you, 
mater?  " 

Mrs.  Clarke  huskily  agreed.  They  were  now  nearing 
Claridge's,  and  Jimmy  was  insistent  that  Dion  should  come  in 
and  have  a  real  jam  tea  with  them. 

"  Do,  Mr.  Leith,  if  you  have  the  time,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  but 
without  any  pressure. 

"  The  strawberry  they  have  is  ripping,  I  can  tell  you !  "  cried 
Jimmy,  with  ardor. 

But  Dion  refused.  Till  he  was  certain  of  Rosamund's  atti- 
tude he  felt  he  simply  couldn't  accept  Mrs.  Clarke's  hospital- 
ity. He  was  obliged  to  get  home  that  day.  Mrs.  Clarke  did 
not  ask  why,  but  Jimmy  did,  and  had  to  be  put  off  with  an 
evasion,  the  usual  mysterious  "  business,"  which,  of  course,  a 
small  boy  couldn't  dive  into  and  explore. 

Dion  thought  Mrs.  Clarke  was  going  to  say  good-by  with- 
out any  mention  of  Rosamund,  but  when  they  reached  Claridge's 
she  said: 

"  Your  wife  and  I  didn't  decide  on  a  day  for  the  Turkish 
songs.  You  remember  I  mentioned  them  to  you  the  other  night? 
I  can't  recollect  whether  she  left  it  to  me  to  fix  a  time,  or  whether 
I  left  it  to  her.  Can  you  find  out?  Do  tell  her  I  was  stupid 
and  forgot.  Will  you  ?  " 

Dion  said  he  would. 

"  I  think  they'll  interest  her.     Now,  Jimmy!  " 


ECHO  225 

But  Jimmy  hung  on  his  god. 

"  I  say,  you'll  come  again  now !     You  promise  ?  " 

What  could  Dion  do? 

"  You  put  your  honor  into  it?  "  pursued  Jimmy,  with  des- 
perate earnestness.  "  You  swear  ?  " 

"  If  I  swear  in  the  open  street  the  police  will  take  me  up," 
said  Dion  jokingly. 

"  Not  they !  One  from  the  shoulder  from  you  and  I  bet  they 
lose  enough  claret  to  fill  a  bucket.  You've  given  your  honor, 
hasn't  he,  mater?  " 

"  Of  course  we  shall  see  him  again,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  star- 
ing at  Dion. 

"  What  curious  eyes  she  has!  "  Dion  thought,  as  he  walked 
homeward. 

Did  they  ever  entirely  lose  their  under-look  of  distress? 


CHAPTER  IX 

THAT  evening  Dion  told  Rosamund  what  Mrs.  Clarke  had 
said  when  he  parted  from  her  at  Claridge's. 
"  I  promised  her  I'd  find  out  which  it  was,"  he  added. 
"  Do  you  remember  what  was  said?  " 

After  a  minute  of  silence,  during  which  Rosamund  seemed  to 
be  considering  something,  she  answered: 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"Which  was  it?" 

"  Neither,  Dion.  Mrs.  Clarke  has  made  a  mistake.  She 
certainly  spoke  of  some  Turkish  songs  to  me,  but  there  was 
never  any  question  of  fixing  a  day  for  us  to  try  them  over  to- 
gether." 

"  She  thinks  there  was." 

"  It's  difficult  to  remember  exactly  what  is  said,  or  not  said, 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd." 

"  But  you  remember?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you'd  rather  not  try  them  over?  " 

"  After  what  you've  told  me  about  Constantinople  I  expect 
I  should  be  quite  out  of  sympathy  with  Turkish  music,"  she 
answered,  lightly  and  smiling.  "  Let  us  be  true  to  our  Greek 
ideal." 


226  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  seemed  to  be  in  fun,  but  he  detected  firmness  of  purpose 
behind  the  fun. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  Mrs.  Clarke?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  should  just  leave  it.     Perhaps  she'll  forget  all  about  it." 

Dion  was  quite  sure  that  wouldn't  happen,  but  he  left  it. 
Rosamund  had  determined  not  to  allow  Mrs.  Clarke  to  be 
friends  with  her.  He  wished  very  much  it  were  otherwise,  not 
because  he  really  cared  for  Mrs.  Clarke,  but  because  he  liked 
her  and  Jimmy,  and  because  he  hated  the  idea  of  hurting  the 
feelings  of  a  woman  in  Mrs.  Clarke's  rather  unusual  situa- 
tion. He  might,  of  course,  have  put  his  point  of  view  plainly 
to  Rosamund  at  once.  Out  of  delicacy  he  did  not  do  this. 
His  great  love  for  Rosamund  made  him  instinctively  very  deli- 
cate in  all  his  dealings  with  her;  it  told  him  that  Rosamund 
did  not  wish  to  discuss  her  reasons  for  desiring  to  avoid  Mrs. 
Clarke.  She  had  had  them,  he  believed,  before  Mrs.  Clarke 
and  she  had  met.  That  meeting  evidently  had  not  lessened 
their  force.  He  supposed,  therefore,  that  she  had  disliked 
Mrs.  Clarke.  He  wondered  why,  and  tried  to  consider  Mrs. 
Clarke  anew.  She  was  certainly  not  a  disagreeable  woman. 
She  was  very  intelligent,  thoroughbred,  beautiful  in  a  peculiar 
way, —  even  Rosamund  thought  that, —  ready  to  make  herself 
pleasant,  quite  free  from  feminine  malice,  absolutely  natural, 
interested  in  all  the  really  interesting  things.  Beattie  liked  her; 
Daventry  rejoiced  in  her;  Mrs.  Chetwinde  was  her  intimate 
friend;  Esme  Darlington  had  even  made  sacrifices  for  her; 
Bruce  Evelin 

There  Dion's  thought  was  held  up,  like  a  stream  that  en- 
counters a  barrier.  What  did  Bruce  Evelin  think  of  Mrs. 
Clarke?  He  had  not  gone  to  the  trial.  But  since  he  had  re- 
tired from  practise  at  the  Bar  he  had  never  gone  into  court. 
Dion  had  often  heard  him  say  he  had  had  enough  of  the  Law 
Courts.  There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  have  been  drawn 
to  them  for  Mrs.  Clarke's  sake,  or  even  for  Daventry's.  But 
what  did  he  think  of  Mrs.  Clarke?  Dion  resolved  to  tell  him 
of  the  rather  awkward  situation  which  had  come  about  through 
his  own  intimacy  —  it  really  amounted  almost  to  that  —  with 
Mrs.  Clarke,  and  Rosamund's  evident  resolve  to  have  nothing 
-  to  do  with  her. 

One  day  Dion  went  to  Great  Cumberland  Place  and  told 
Bruce  Evelin  all  the  facts,  exactly  what  Mrs.  Clarke  had  said 
and  done,  exactly  what  Rosamund  had  said  and  done.  As  he 


ECHO  227 

spoke  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  describing  a  sort  of  contest, 
shadowy,  perhaps,  withdrawn  and  full  of  reserves,  yet  definite. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  he  said,  when  he  had  told  the 
comparatively  little  there  was  to  tell. 

"  I  think  Rosamund  likes  to  keep  her  home  very  quiet,  don't 
you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Even  her  friends  complain  that  she  shuts  them  out." 

"  I  know  they  do." 

"  She  may  not  at  all  dislike  Mrs.  Clarke.  She  may  simply 
not  wish  to  add  to  her  circle  of  friends." 

"  The  difficulty  is,  that  Mrs.  Clarke  is  such  friends  with 
Beattie  and  Guy,  and  that  I've  got  to  know  her  quite  well. 
Then  there's  her  boy;  he's  taken  a  fancy  to  me.  If  Mrs. 
Clarke  and  Rosamund  could  just  exchange  calls  it  would  be  all 
right,  but  if  they  don't  it  really  looks  rather  as  if  Rosamund 
—  well,  as  if  she  thought  the  divorce  case  had  left  a  slur  on 
Mrs.  Clarke.  What  I  mean  is,  that  I  feel  Mrs.  Clarke  will  take 
it  in  that  way." 

"  She  may,  of  course." 

"  I  wonder  why  she  is  so  determined  to  make  friends  with 
Rosamund,"  blurted  out  Dion  abruptly. 

"  You  think  she  is  determined  ?  "  said  Bruce  Evelin  quietly. 

"  Yes.     Telling  you  has  made  me  feel  that  quite  plainly." 

"  Anyhow,  she'll  be  gone  back  to  Constantinople  in  April, 
and  then  vour  little  difficulty  will  come  to  an  end  automati- 
cally." 

Dion  looked  rather  hard  at  Bruce  Evelin.  When  he  spoke 
to  Rosamund  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  Rosamund  always  seemed  to  try 
for  a  gentle  evasion.  Now  Bruce  Evelin  was  surely  evading 
the  question,  and  again  Mrs.  Clarke  was  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation. Bruce  Evelin  was  beginning  to  age  rather  definitely. 
He  had  begun  to  look  older  since  Beattie  was  married.  But  his 
dark  eyes  were  still  very  bright  and  keen,  and  one  could  not  be 
with  him  for  even  a  few  minutes  without  realizing  that  his  in- 
tellect was  sharply  alert. 

"  Isn't  it  strange  that  she  should  go  back  to  live  in  Constan- 
tinople? "  Dion  said. 

"  Yes.     Not  many  women  in  her  position  would  do  it." 

"  And  yet  there's  reason  in  her  contention  that  an  innocent 
woman  who  allows  herself  to  be  driven  away  from  the  place  she 
lived  in  is  a  bit  of  a  coward." 


228  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Beadon  Clarke's  transferred  to  Madrid,  so  Mrs.  Clarke's 
reason  —  it  was  a  diplomatic  one  —  for  living  in  Constantinople 
falls  to  the  ground." 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  But  of  course  her  husband  and  she  have 
parted." 

"  Naturally.     So  she  has  the  world  to  choose  from." 

"  For  a  home,  you  mean  ?  Yes.  It's  an  odd  choice,  Con- 
stantinople. But  she's  not  an  ordinary  woman." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Bruce  Evelin. 

Again  Dion  was  definitely  conscious  of  evasion.  He  got  up 
to  go  away,  feeling  disappointed. 

"  Then  you  advise  me  to  do  nothing  ?  "  he  said. 

"What  about,  my  boy?" 

"  About  Mrs.  Clarke." 

"  What  could  you  do  ?  " 

Dion  was  silent. 

"  I  think  it's  better  to  let  women  settle  these  little  things 
among  themselves.  They  have  a  deep  and  comprehensive 
understanding  of  trifles  which  we  mostly  lack.  How's 
Robin?" 

Robin  again!  Was  he  always  to  be  the  buffer  between  5 
Little  Market  Street  and  Mrs.  Clarke? 

"  He's  well  and  tremendously,  lively,  and  I  honestly  think 
he's  growing  better  looking." 

"Dear  little  chap!  "  said  Bruce  Evelin,  with  a  very  great 
tenderness  in  his  voice.  "  Dion,  we  shall  have  to  concentrate 
on  Robin." 

Dion  looked  at  him  with  inquiry. 

"  Poor  Beattie,  I  don't  think  she'll  have  a  child." 

"Beattie!     Not  ever?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not." 

Dion  was  shocked  and  startled. 

"  But  I  haven't  heard  a  word "  he  began. 

"  No.  Both  Beattie  and  Guy  feel  it  terribly.  I  had  a  talk 
with  Beattie's  doctor  to-day." 

"How  dreadful!     I'm  sorry.     But "     He  paused. 

He  didn't  like  to  ask  intimate  questions  about  Beattie. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  so,"  said  Bruce  Evelin.  "  You  must  let  us 
all  have  a  share  in  your  Robin." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  but  there  was  very  deep,  even  intense, 
feeling  in  his  voice. 

"  Poor  Beattie !  "  Dion  said. 

And  that,  too,  was  an  evasion. 


ECHO  229 

He  went  away  from  Great  Cumberland  place  accompanied  by 
a  sense  of  walking,  not  perhaps  in  darkness,  but  in  a  dimness 
which  was  not  delicately  beautiful  like  the  dimness  of  twilight, 
but  was  rather  akin  to  the  semi-obscurity  of  fog. 

Not  a  word  more  was  said  about  Mrs.  Clarke  between  Rosa- 
mund and  Dion,  and  the  latter  never  let  Mrs.  Clarke  know 
about  the  Turkish  songs,  never  fulfilled  his  undertaking  to  go 
and  see  Jimmy  again.  In  a  contest  he  could  only  be  on  Rosa- 
mund's side.  The  whole  matter  seemed  to  him  unfortunate, 
even  almost  disagreeable,  but,  for  him,  there  could  be  no  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  he  wished  Rosamund's  or  Mrs.  Clarke's 
will  to  prevail.  Whatever  Rosamund's  reason  was  for  not 
choosing  to  be  friends  with  Mrs.  Clarke  he  knew  it  was  not 
malicious  or  petty.  Perhaps  she  had  made  a  mistake  about 
Mrs.  Clarke.  If  so  it  was  certainly  an  honest  mistake.  It 
was  when  he  thought  of  his  promise  to  Jimmy  that  he  felt  most 
uncomfortable  about  Rosamund's  never  expressed  decision. 
Jimmy  had  a  good  memory.  He  would  not  forget.  As  to 
Mrs.  Clarke,  of  course  she  now  fully  understood  that  Mrs.  Dion 
Leith  did  not  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  her.  She  con- 
tinued to  go  often  to  Beattie  and  Daventry,  consolidated  her 
friendship  with  them.  But  Dion  never  met  her  in  De  Lome 
Gardens.  From  Daventry  he  learnt  that  Mrs.  Clarke  had  been 
extraordinarily  kind  to  Beattie  when  Beattie's  expectation  of 
motherhood  had  faded  away.  Bruce  Evelin's  apprehension  was 
well  founded.  For  reasons  which  Daventry  did  not  enter  into 
Beattie  could  never  now  hope  to  have  a  child.  Daventry  was 
greatly  distressed  about  it,  but  rather  for  Beattie's  sake  than  for 
his  own. 

"  I  married  Beattie  because  I  loved  her,  not  because  I  wanted 
to  become  a  father,"  he  said. 

After  a  rather  long  pause  he  added,  almost  wistfully. 

"  As  to  Beattie's  reasons  for  marrying  me,  well,  Dion,  I 
haven't  asked  what  they  were  and  I  never  shall.  Women  are 
mysterious,  and  I  believe  it's  wisdom  on  our  part  not  to  try  to 
force  the  locks  and  look  into  the  hidden  chambers.  I'll  do  what 
I  can  to  make  up  to  Beattie  for  this  terrible  disappointment.  It 
won't  be  nearly  enough,  but  that  isn't  my  fault.  Rosamund  and 
you  can  help  her  a  little." 

"How?" 

"  She  —  she's  extraordinarily  fond  of  Robin." 

"  Extraordinarily?  "  said  Dion,  startled  almost  by  Daventry's 
peculiar  emphasis  on  the  word. 


230  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes.  Let  her  see  a  good  deal  of  Robin  if  you  can.  Poor 
Beattie!  She'll  never  have  a  child  of  her  own  to  live  in." 

Dion  told  Rosamund  of  this  conversation,  and  they  agreed 
to  encourage  Beattie  to  come  to  Little  Market  Street  as  often 
as  possible.  Nevertheless  Beattie  did  not  come  very  often. 
It  was  obvious  that  she  adored  Robin,  who  was  always  polite 
to  her;  but  perhaps  delicacy  of  feeling  kept  her  from  making 
perpetual  pilgrimages  to  the  shrine  before  which  an  incense 
not  hers  was  forever  ascending;  or  perhaps  she  met  a  gaunt 
figure  of  Pain  in  the  home  of  her  sister.  However  it  was,  her 
visits  were  rather  rare,  and  no  persuasion  availed  to  make  her 
come  oftener.  At  this  time  she  and  Dion's  mother  drew  closer 
together.  The  two  women  loved  and  understood  each  other 
well.  Perhaps  between  them  there  was  the  link  of  loneliness, 
or  perhaps  there  was  another  link. 

Early  in  April  Dion  received  one  morning  the  following  let- 
ter: 

"  CLARIDGE'S  HOTEL, 

6  April 

"  DEAR  MR.  LEITH, —  I  feel  pretty  rotten  about  you.  I 
thought  when  once  a  clever  boxer  gave  his  honor  on  a  thing  it 
was  a  dead  cert.  The  mater  wouldn't  let  me  write  before, 
though  I've  been  at  her  over  it  every  day  for  weeks.  But  now 
we're  going  away,  so  she  says  I  may  write  and  just  tell  you. 
If  you  want  to  say  good-by  could  you  telephone,  she  says. 
P'raps  you  don't.  P'raps  you've  forgotten  us.  I  can  tell  you 
Jenkins  is  sick  about  it  all  and  your  never  going  to  the  Gim. 
He  said  to  me  to-day,  '  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  Mr. 
Leith.'  No  more  do  I.  The  mater  says  you're  a  busy  man  and 
have  a  kid.  I  say  a  true  friend  is  never  too  busy  to  be  friendly. 
I  really  do  feel  rotten  over  it,  and  now  we  are  going. —  Your 
affectionate  JIMMY  " 

Dion  showed  Rosamund  the  letter,  and  telephoned  to  say  he 
would  call  on  the  following  day.  Jimmy's  voice  answered  on 
the  telephone  and  said: 

"  I  say,  you  have  been  beastly  to  us.  The  mater  says  noth- 
ing, but  we  thought  you  liked  us.  Jenkins  says  that  between 
boxers  there's  always  a " 

At  this  point  Jimmy  was  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  re- 
proaches. 

On  arriving  at  Claridge's  Dion  found  Jimmy  alone.     Mrs. 


ECHO  231 

Clarke  was  out  but  would  return  in  a  moment.  Jimmy  re- 
ceived his  visitor  not  stiffly  but  with  exuberant  and  vociferous 
reproaches,  and  vehement  demands  to  know  the  why  and  where- 
fore of  his  unsportsmanlike  behavior. 

"  I've  ordered  you  a  real  jam  tea  all  the  same,"  he  con- 
cluded, with  a  magnanimity  which  did  him  honor,  and  which, 
as  he  was  evidently  aware,  proved  him  to  be  a  true  sportsman. 

"  You're  a  trump,"  said  Dion,  pulling  the  boy  down  beside 
him  on  a  sofa. 

"  Oh,  well  —  but  I  say,  why  didn't  you  come?  " 

He  stared  with  the  mercilessly  inquiring  eyes  of  boyhood. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  said  on  my  honor  that  I  would  come." 

"  But  you  did.     You  swore." 

"  No.     I  was  afraid  of  the  policeman." 

"  I  say,  what  rot!  As  if  you  could  be  afraid  of  any  one! 
Why,  Jenkins  says  you're  the  best  pupil  he's  ever  had.  Why 
didn't  you?  Don't  you  like  us?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  The  mater  says  you're  married,  and  married  men  have  no 
time  to  bother  about  other  people's  kids.  Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Well,  of  course  there's  a  lot  to  be  done  in  London,  and  I 
go  to  business  every  day." 

"  You've  got  a  kid,  haven't  you?  " 

"Yes!" 

"It's  a  boy,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  say,  how  old  is  it?  " 

"  A  year  and  a  month  old,  or  a  little  over." 

Jimmy's  face  expressed  satire. 

"  A  year  and  a  month !  "  he  repeated.  "  Is  that  all  ?  Then 
it  can't  be  much  good  yet,  can  it?  " 

"  It  can't  box  or  do  exercise  as  you  can.  You  are  getting 
broad." 

"  Rather!  Box?  I  should  think  not!  A  kid  of  a  year  old 
boxing!  I  should  like  to  see  it  with  Jenkins." 

He  began  to  giggle.  By  the  time  Mrs.  Clarke  returned  and 
they  sat  down  to  the  real  jam  tea,  the  ice  was  in  fragments. 

"  I  believe  you  were  right,  mater,  and  it  was  all  the  kid  that 
prevented  Mr.  Leith  from  sticking  to  his  promise,"  Jimmy  an- 
nounced, as  he  helped  Dion  to  "  the  strawberry,"  with  a  liber- 
ality which  betokened  an  affection  steadfast  even  under  the 
-stress  of  blighting  circumstances. 

"  Of  course  I  was  right,"  returned  his  mother  gravely. 


232  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Dion  was  rather  glad  that  she  looked  away  from  him  as  she 
said  it 

Her  manner  to  him  was  unchanged.  Evidently  she  was  a 
woman  not  quick  to  take  offense.  He  liked  that  absence  of  all 
"  touchiness  "  from  her,  and  felt  that  a  man  could  rest  com- 
fortably on  her  good  breeding.  But  this  very  good  breeding  in- 
creased within  him  a  sense  of  discomfort  which  amounted  al- 
most to  guilt.  He  tried  to  smother  it  by  being  very  jolly  with 
Jimmy,  to  whom  he  devoted  most  of  his  attention.  When  tea 
was  over  Mrs.  Clarke  said  to  her  son: 

"  Now,  Jimmy,  you  must  go  away  for  a  little  while  and  let 
me  have  a  talk  with  Mr.  Leith." 

"  Oh,  mater,  that's  not  fair.  Mr.  Leith's  my  pal.  Aren't 
you,  Mr.  Leith?  Why,  even  Jenkins  says " 

"  I  should  rather  think  so.     Why " 

"  You  shall  see  Mr.  Leith  again  before  he  goes." 

He  looked  at  his  mother,  suddenly  became  very  grave,  and 
went  slowly  out  of  the  room.  It  was  evident  to  Dion  that  Mrs. 
Clarke  knew  how  to  make  people  obey  her  when  she  was  in 
earnest. 

As  soon  as  Jimmy  had  gone  Mrs.  Clarke  rang  for  the  waiter 
to  take  away  the  tea-table. 

"  Then  we  shan't  be  bothered,"  she  remarked.  "  I  hate  peo- 
ple coming  in  and  out  when  I'm  trying  to  have  a  quiet  talk." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Dion. 

The  waiter  rolled  the  table  out  gently  and  shut  the  door. 

Mrs.  Clarke  sat  down  on  a  sofa. 

"  Do  light  a  cigar,"  she  said.  "  I  know  you  want  to  smoke, 
and  I'll  have  a  cigarette." 

She  drew  out  of  a  little  case  which  lay  on  a  table  beside  her 
a  Turkish  cigarette  and  lit  it,  while  Dion  lighted  a  cigar. 

"  So  you're  really  going  back  to  Constantinople?  "  he  began. 
"  And  taking  Jimmy  with  you?  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  time.  My  husband  raises  no  objection.  In  a 
year  I  shall  send  Jimmy  to  Eton.  Lady  Ermyntrude  is  furious, 
of  course,  and  has  tried  to  stir  up  my  husband.  But  her  influ- 
ence with  him  is  dead.  He's  terribly  ashamed  at  what  she  made 
him  do." 

"The  action?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  she  who  made  him  think  me  guilty  against 
his  real  inner  conviction.  Now,  poor  man,  he  realizes  that  he 
dragged  me  through  the  dirt  without  reason.  He's  ashamed  to 
show  his  face  in  the  Clubs,  and  nearly  resigned  from  diplo- 


ECHO  233 

macy.  But  he's  a  valuable  man,  and  they've  persuaded  him  to 
go  to  Madrid." 

"  "Why  go  back  to  Constantinople?  " 

"  Merely  to  show  I'm  not  afraid  to  and  that  I  won't  be  driven 
from  my  purpose  by  false  accusations." 

"  And  you  love  it,  of  course." 

"  Yes.  My  flat  will  be  charming,  I  think.  Some  day  you'll 
see  it." 

Dion  was  silent  in  surprise. 

"  Don't  you  realize  that?  "  she  asked,  staring  at  him. 

"  I  think  it  very  improbable  that  I  shall  ever  go  back  to  Con- 
stantinople." 

"  And  I'm  sure  you  will." 

"  Why  are  you  sure?  " 

"  That  I  can't  tell  you.  Why  is  one  sometimes  sure  that  cer- 
tain things  will  come  about?  " 

"  Do  you  claim  to  be  psychic  ?  "  said  Dion. 

"  I  never  make  verbal  claims.     Now  about  Jimmy." 

She  discussed  for  a  little  while  seriously  her  plans  for  the 
boy's  education  while  he  stayed  with  her.  She  had  found  a 
tutor,  a  young  Oxford  man,  who  would  accompany  them  to  Tur- 
key, but  she  wanted  Dion's  advice  on  certain  points.  He  gave 
it,  wondering  all  the  time  why  she  consulted  him  after  his  neg- 
lect of  her  and  of  her  son,  after  his  failure  to  accept  invita- 
tions and  to  fulfil  pledges  (or  to  stick  to  the  understandings 
which  were  almost  pledges),  after  the  tacit  refusals  of  Rosa- 
mund. Did  it  not  show  a  strange  persistence,  even  a  certain 
lack  of  pride  in  her?  Perhaps  she  heard  the  haunting  ques- 
tions which  he  did  not  utter,  for  she  suddenly  turned  from  the 
topic  of  the  boy  and  said: 

"  You're  surprised  at  my  bothering  you  with  all  this  when 
we  really  know  each  other  so  slightly.  It  is  unconventional; 
but  I  shall  never  learn  the  way  to  conventionality  in  spite  of  all 
poor  Esme's  efforts  to  shepherd  me  into  the  path  he  thinks  nar- 
row and  I  find  broad  —  a  way  that  leads  to  destruction.  I  feel 
you  absolutely  understand  boys,  and  know  by  instinct  the  best 
way  with  them.  That's  why  I  still  come  to  you." 

She  paused.  She  had  deliberately  driven  home  her  mean- 
ing by  a  stress  on  one  word.  Now  she  sat  looking  at  him,  with 
a  wide-eyed  and  deeply  grave  fixity,  as  if  considering  what 
more  she  should  say.  Dion  murmured  something  about  being 
very  glad  if  he  could  help  her  in  any  way  with  regard  to 
Jimmy. 


234  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  You  can  be  conventional,"  she  remarked.  "  Well,  why 
not?  Most  English  people  are  perpetually  playing  for  safety." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  back  to  Constantinople,"  said  Dion. 

"Why?" 

"  I  believe  it's  a  mistake.  It  seems  to  me  like  throwing  down 
a  defiance  to  your  world." 

"  But  I  never  play  for  safety." 

"  But  think  of  the  danger  you've  passed  through." 

The  characteristic  distressed  look  deepened  in  her  eyes  till 
they  seemed  to  him  tragic.  Nevertheless,  fearlessness  still 
looked  out  of  them. 

"  What  shall  I  gain  by  doing  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Esme  Darlington  once  said  you  were  a  wild  mind  in  an  in- 
nocent body.  I  believe  he  was  right.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
some  day  your  wild  mind  may  get  you  into  danger  again  and 
that  perhaps  you  won't  escape  from  it  unscathed  a  second  time." 

"  How  quiet  and  safe  and  calm  it  must  be  at  Number  5 !  " 
she  rejoined,  without  any  irony. 

"  You  wouldn't  care  for  that  sort  of  life.  You'd  find  it  hum- 
drum," said  Dion,  with  simplicity. 

"  You  never  would,"  she  said,  still  without  irony,  without 
even  the  hint  of  a  sneer.  "  And  the  truth  is  that  the  hum- 
drum is  created  not  by  a  way  of  living  but  by  those  who  follow 
it.  Your  wife  and  the  humdrum  could  never  occupy  the  same 
house.  I  shall  always  regret  that  I  didn't  see  something  of  her. 
Do  give  her  a  cordial  '  au  revoir  '  from  me.  You'll  hear  of  me 
again.  Don't  be  frightened  about  me  in  your  kind  of  chival- 
rous heart.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  several  things.  I'm  not 
going  to  give  the  list  now.  That  would  either  bore  you,  or 
make  you  feel  shy.  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  tell  you  what 
they  are,  in  a  caique  on  the  sweet  waters  of  Asia  or  among  the 
cypresses  of  Eyub." 

With  the  last  sentence  she  transported  Dion,  as  on  a  magic 
carpet,  to  the  unwise  life.  Her  husky  voice  changed  a  little; 
her  face  changed  a  little  too;  the  one  became  slower  and  more 
drowsy;  the  other  less  haggard  and  fixed  in  its  expression  of 
distress.  This  woman  had  her  hours  of  happiness,  perhaps 
even  of  exultation.  For  a  moment  Dion  envisaged  another 
woman  in  her.  And  when  he  had  bidden  her  good-by,  and  had 
received  the  tremendous  farewells  of  Jimmy,  he  realized  that  she 
had  made  upon  him  an  impression  which,  though  soft,  was  cer- 
tainly deep.  He  thought  of  how  a  cushion  looks  when  it  lies  on 
a  sofa  in  an  empty  room,  indented  by  the  small  head  of  a  woman 


ECHO  235 

who  has  been  thinking,  thinking  alone.  For  a  moment  he  was 
out  of  shape,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  had  made  him  so. 

In  the  big  hall,  as  he  passed  out,  he  saw  Lord  Brayfield  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  bureau  speaking  to  the  hall  porter. 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  tell  you  what  they  are,  in  a 
cai'que  on  the  sweet  waters  of  Asia  or  among  the  cypresses  of 
Eyub." 

Dion  smiled  as  he  recalled  Mrs.  Clarke's  words,  which  had 
been  spoken  fatalistically.  Then  his  face  became  very  grave. 

Suddenly  there  dawned  upon  him,  like  a  vision  in  the  Lon- 
don street,  one  of  the  vast  Turkish  cemeteries,  dusty,  forlorn, 
disordered,  yet  full  of  a  melancholy  touched  by  romance;  and 
among  the  thousands  of  graves,  through  the  dark  thickets  of 
cypresses,  he  was  walking  with  Mrs.  Clarke,  who  looked  ex- 
actly like  Echo. 

A  newsboy  at  the  corner  was  crying  the  latest  horror  —  a 
woman  found  stabbed  in  Hyde  Park.  But  to  Dion  his  raucous 
and  stunted  voice  sounded  like  a  voice  from  the  sea,  a  strange 
and  sad  cry  lifted  up  between  Europe  and  Asia. 


BOOK  III 
LITTLE  CLOISTERS 

CHAPTER  I 

MORE  than  a  year  and  a  half  passed  away,  and  in  the 
autumn  of  1899  the  Boer  War  broke  out  and  the  face 
of  England  was  changed ;  for  the  heart  of  England  be- 
gan to  beat  more  strongly  than  usual,  and  the  soul  of  England 
was  stirred.  The  winter  came,  and  in  many  Englishmen  a 
hidden  conflict  began;  in  their  journey  through  life  they  came 
abruptly  to  a  parting  of  the  ways,  stood  still  and  looked  to  the 
right  and  the  left,  balancing  possibilities,  searching  their  na- 
tures and  finding  within  them  strange  hesitations,  recoils,  af- 
firmations, determined  nobilities. 

Dion  had  followed  the  events  which  led  up  to  the  fateful 
decision  of  Wednesday,  October  the  eleventh,  with  intense  in- 
terest. As  the  October  days  drew  on  he  had  felt  the  approach 
of  war.  It  came  up,  this  footfall  of  an  enemy,  it  paced  at  his 
side.  Would  he  presently  be  tried  by  this  enemy,  would  it  test 
him  and  find  out  exactly  what  metal  he  was  made  of?  He 
wondered,  but  from  the  moment  when  the  first  cloud  showed 
itself  on  the  horizon  he  had  a  presentiment  that  this  distant  war 
was  going  to  have  a  strong  effect  on  his  life. 

On  the  afternoon  of  October  the  eleventh  he  walked  slowly 
home  from  the  City  alone.  There  was  excitement  in  the  air. 
The  voices  of  the  newsvendors  sounded  fateful  in  his  ears;  the 
faces  of  the  passers-by  looked  unusually  eager  and  alert.  As 
he  made  his  way  through  the  crowd  he  did  not  debate  the 
rights  and  wrongs  of  the  question  about  to  be  decided  between 
Briton  and  Boer.  His  mind  avoided  thoughts  about  politics. 
For  him,  perhaps  strangely,  the  issue  had  already  narrowed 
down  to  a  personal  question :  "  What  is  this  war  going  to  mean 
to  me?" 

He  asked  himself  this;  he  put  the  question  again  and  again. 

237 


238  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Nevertheless  it  was  answered  somewhere  within  him  almost  as 
soon  as  it  was  put.  If  there  came  a  call  for  volunteers  he  would 
be  one  of  the  many  who  would  answer  it.  The  call  might  not 
come,  of  course;  the  war  might  be  short,  a  hole-and-corner  af- 
fair soon  ended.  He  told  himself  that,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he 
felt  sure  that  the  call  would  come. 

He  knew  he  would  not  hold  back;  but  he  knew  also  that  his 
was  not  the  eagerness  to  go  of  the  man  assumed  by  journalists 
to  be  the  typical  Englishman.  He  was  not  mad  to  plunge  into 
the  great  game,  reckless  of  the  future  and  shouting  for  the 
fray.  He  was  not  one  of  the  "  hard-bitten  raw-boned  men  with 
keen  eyes  and  ready  for  anything  "  beloved  of  the  journalists, 
who  loom  so  large  in  the  public  eye  when  "  big  things  are  afoot." 
On  that  autumn  evening,  as  he  walked  homeward,  Dion  knew 
the  bunkum  that  is  given  out  to  the  world  as  truth,  knew  that 
brave  men  have  souls  undreamed  of  in  newspaper  offices.  He 
perceived  the  figure  of  war  just  then  as  a  figure  terribly  aus- 
tere, grim,  cold,  harsh  —  a  figure  stripped  of  all  pleasant  flesh 
and  sweet  coloring,  of  all  softness  and  warm  humanity.  It  ac- 
companied him  like  an  iron  thing  which  nevertheless  was  in- 
formed with  life.  Joy  withered  beside  it,  yet  it  had  the  power 
to  make  things  bloom.  Already  he  knew  that  as  he  had  not 
known  it  before. 

In  the  crowded  Strand  the  voices  of  the  newsvendors  were 
insistently  shrill,  raucous,  almost  fierce.  As  he  heard  them  he 
faced  tests.  Many  things  were  going  to  be  put  to  the  test  in 
the  almost  immediate  future.  Among  them  perhaps  would  be 
Rosamund's  exact  feeling  for  him. 

Upon  the  hill  of  Drouva  they  had  slept  in  the  same  tent,  hus- 
band and  wife,  more  than  three  years  ago;  in  green  and  remote 
Elis  they  had  sat  together  before  the  Hermes,  hidden  away  from 
the  world  and  hearing  the  antique  voices;  in  Westminster 
Robin  was  theirs;  yet  this  evening,  facing  in  imagination  the 
tests  of  war,  Dion  knew  that  Rosamund's  exact  feeling  for  him 
was  still  a  secret  from  him.  If  he  went  to  South  Africa  that 
secret  must  surely  be  revealed.  Rosamund  would  inevitably 
find  out  then  the  nature  of  her  feeling  for  him,  how  much  she 
cared,  and  even  if  she  did  not  tell  him  how  much  she  cared  he 
would  know,  he  could  not  help  knowing. 

He  knew  with  a  terrible  thoroughness  this  evening  how  much 
he  cared  for  her. 

He  considered  Robin. 

Robin  was  now  more  than  two  and  a  half  years  old;   a 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  239 

personage  in  a  jersey  and  minute  knickerbockers,  full  of  danc- 
ing energy  and  spirits,  full  of  vital  interest  in  the  smaller  prob- 
lems of  life.  He  was  a  fidget  and  he  was  a  talker.  Out  of  a 
full  mind  he  poured  forth  an  abundant  stream  of  words,  care- 
lessly chosen  at  times,  yet  on  the  whole  apt  to  the  occasion. 
His  intelligence  was  marked,  of  course, —  what  very  young 
child's  is  not  ?  —  and  he  had  inherited  an  ample  store  of  the 
joie  de  vivre  which  distinguished  his  mother.  The  homeliness 
of  feature  which  had  marked  him  out  in  the  baldhead  stage 
of  his  existence  had  given  place  to  a  dawning  of  what  promised 
to  be  later  on  distinct  good  looks.  Already  he  was  an  at- 
tractive-looking child,  with  a  beautiful  mouth,  a  rather  short 
and  at  present  rather  snub  nose,  freckled  on  the  bridge,  large 
blue  eyes,  and  a  forehead,  temples  and  chin  which  hinted  at 
Rosamund's.  His  hair  was  now  light  brown,  and  had  a  bold, 
almost  an  ardent,  wave  in  it.  Perhaps  Robin's  most  marked 
characteristic  at  this  time  was  ardor.  Occasionally  the  mildly 
inquiring  expression  which  Dion  had  been  touched  by  in  the 
early  days  came  to  his  little  face.  He  could  be  very  gentle 
and  very  clinging,  and  was  certainly  sensitive.  Often  imag- 
ination, in  embryo  as  it  were,  was  shown  by  his  eyes.  But 
ardor  informed  and  enveloped  him,  he  swam  in  ardor  and  of 
ardor  he  was  all  compact.  Even  the  freckles  which  disfigured, 
or  adorned,  the  bridge  of  his  nose  looked  ardent.  Rosamund 
loved  those  freckles  in  a  way  she  could  never  have  explained, 
loved  them  with  a  strength  and  tenderness  which  issued  from  the 
very  roots  of  her  being.  To  her  they  were  Robin,  the  dearest 
part  of  the  dearest  thing  on  earth.  Many  of  her  kisses  had  gone 
to  those  little  freckles. 

Dion  might  have  to  part  not  only  from  Rosamund  but  also 
from  Robin. 

He  had  become  very  fond  of  his  little  son.  The  detachment 
which  had  perhaps  marked  his  mental  attitude  to  the  baby 
did  not  mark  his  mental  attitude  to  the  boy.  In  the  Robin  of 
to-day,  the  jerseyed  and  knickerbockered  person,  with  the  in- 
cessantly active  legs,  the  eager  eyes,  the  perpetually  twittering 
voice,  Dion  was  conscious  of  the  spirit  of  progress.  Already 
he  was  able  to  foresee  the  small  school-boy,  whom  only  a  fa- 
ther could  properly  help  and  advise  in  regard  to  many  aspects 
of  the  life  ahead;  already  he  was  looking  forward  to  the  time 
when  he  could  take  a  hand  in  the  training  of  Robin.  It  would 
be  very  hard  to  go  away  from  that  little  bit  of  quicksilver,  very 
hard  indeed. 


240  IX  THE  WILDERNESS 

But  the  thought  which  made  his  heart  sink,  which  brought 
with  it  almost  a  sensation  of  mortal  sickness  to  his  soul,  was 
the  thought  of  parting  from  Rosamund.  As  he  walked  down 
Parliament  Street  he  imagined  the  good-by  to  her  on  the  eve 
of  sailing  for  South  Africa.  That  acute  moment  might  never 
come.  This  evening  he  felt  it  on  the  way.  Whatever  hap- 
pened it  would  be  within  his  power  to  stay  with  Rosamund,  for 
there  was  no  conscription  in  England.  If  he  went  to  South 
Africa  then  the  action  of  leaving  her  would  be  deliberate  on  his 
part.  Was  there  within  him  something  that  was  stronger  than 
his  love  for  her  ?  There  must  be,  he  supposed,  for  he  knew  that 
if  men  were  called  for,  and  if  Rosamund  asked,  or  even  begged 
him  not  to  go,  he  would  go  nevertheless. 

Vaporous  Westminster,  dark  and  leaning  to  the  great  river, 
for  how  long  he  had  not  seen  it,  or  realized  what  it  meant  to 
him!  Custom  had  blinded  his  eyes  and  had  nearly  closed  his 
mind  to  it  The  day's  event  had  given  him  back  sight  and 
knowledge.  This  evening  his  familiarity  with  Westminster 
bred  in  him  intensity  of  vision  and  apprehension.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes,  that  for  the  first  time 
he  really  saw  Parliament  Street,  the  Houses  of  Parliament, 
Westminster  Bridge,  the  river.  The  truth  was,  that  for  the 
first  time  he  really  felt  them,  felt  that  he  belonged  to  them  and 
they  to  him,  that  their  blackness  in  the  October  evening  was 
part  of  the  color  of  him,  that  the  Westminster  sounds,  chimes, 
footfalls,  the  dull  roar  of  traffic,  human  voices  from  street,  from 
bridge,  from  river,  harmonized  with  the  voices  in  him,  in  the 
very  depths  of  him.  This  was  England,  this  closeness,  this 
harmony  of  the  outer  to  and  with  the  inner,  this  was  Eng- 
land saying  to  one  of  her  sons,  "  You  belong  to  me  and  I  to 
you."  The  race  spoke  and  the  land,  they  walked  with  Dion 
in  the  darkness. 

For  he  did  not  go  straight  home.  He  walked  for  a  long 
time  beside  the  river.  By  the  river  he  kissed  Robin  and  he 
said  good-by  to  Rosamund,  by  the  river  he  climbed  upon  the 
troopship,  and  he  saw  the  fading  of  England  on  the  horizon, 
and  he  felt  the  breath  of  the  open  sea.  And  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  men  going  southward  he  knew  at  last  what  loneli- 
ness was.  The  lights  that  gleamed  across  the  river  were  the 
last  lights  of  England  that  he  would  see  for  many  a  day.  per- 
haps forever;  the  chime  from  the  clock -tower  was  the  last  of 
the  English  sounds.  He  endured  in  imagination  a  phantom 
bitterness  of  departure  which  seemed  abominably  real;  then  sud- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  241 

denly  he  was  recalled  from  a  possible  future  to  the  very  definite 
present. 

He  met  by  the  river  two  men,  sleek  people  in  silk  hats,  with 
plump  hands  —  hands  which  looked  as  if  they  were  carefully 
fed  on  very  nutritious  food  even-  day  by  their  owners  —  warmly 
covered.  As  they  passed  him  one  of  these  know-alls  said  to 
the  other: 

"Oh,  it'll  only  be  a  port)7  little  war.  What  can  a  handful  of 
peasants  do  against  our  men?  I'll  lay  you  five  to  one  in  sov- 
ereigns two  months  will  see  it  out." 

"  I  dare  say  you  will,"  returned  the  other,  in  a  voice  that  was 
surely  smiling,  "  but  I  won't  take  you." 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  plunger  I  am!  "  thought  Dion.  "  Racing 
ahead  like  a  horse  that's  lost  his  wits.  Ten  to  one  they'll  never 
want  volunteers.'' 

But  Westminster  still  looked  exceptional,  full  of  the  inner 
meaning,  and  somewhere  within  him  a  voice  still  said,  "  You 
will  go."'  Nevertheless  he  was  able  partly  to  put  off  his  hybrid 
feeling,  half-dread,  half-desire.  The  sleek  people  in  the  silk 
hats  had  made  their  little  effect  on  the  stranger.  "  The  man 
in  the  street  is  often  right,"  Dion  said  to  himself;  though  he 
knew  that  the  man  in  the  street  is  probably  there,  and  remains 
there,  because  he  is  so  often  WTong. 

\Yhen  he  reached  Little  Market  Street  Dion  told  Rosamund 
there  would  be  war  in  South  Africa,  but  he  did  not  even  hint 
at  his  thought  that  volunteers  might  be  called  for,  at  his  inten- 
tion, if  they  were,  to  offer  himself.  To  do  that  would  not  only 
be  absurdly  premature,  but  might  even  seem  slightly  bombastic, 
an  uncalled-for  study  in  heroics.  He  kept  silence.  The  bat- 
tles of  Ladysmith,  of  Magersfontein,  of  Stormberg,  of  Colenso, 
unsettled  the  theories  of  sleek  people  in  silk  hats.  England 
came  to  a  very  dark  hour  when  Robin  was  playing  with  a  new 
set  of  bricks  which  his  Aunt  Beattie  had  given  him.  Dion 
began  to  understand  the  rightness  of  his  instinct  that  evening 
by  the  river,  when  Westminster  had  spoken  to  him  and  Eng- 
land had  whispered  in  his  blood.  As  he  had  thought  of  things, 
so  they  were  going  to  be.  The  test  was  very  great  It  was  as 
if  already  it  stood  by  him,  a  living  entity,  and  touched  him 
with  an  imperious  hand.  Sometimes  he  looked  at  Rosamund 
and  saw  great  stretches  of  sea  rolling  under  great  stretches  of 
sky.  The  barrier!  How  would  he  be  able  to  bear  the  long 
separation  from  Rosamund?  The  habit  of  happiness  in  cer- 
tain circumstances  can  become  the  scourge  of  a  man.  Men  who 


242  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

were  unhappy  at  home  could  go  to  the  war  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  he. 

Just  before  Christmas  the  call  for  men  came,  and  in  Dion  a 
hesitation  was  born.  Should  he  go  and  offer  himself  at  once 
without  telling  Rosamund,  or  should  he  tell  her  what  he  wished 
to  do  and  ask  her  opinion?  Suppose  she  were  against  his 
going  out?  He  could  not  ask  her  advice  if  he  was  not  pre- 
pared to  take  it.  What  line  did  he  wish  her  to  take  ?  By  what 
course  of  action  would  such  a  woman  as  Rosamund  prove  depth 
of  love?  Wouldn't  it  be  natural  for  a  woman  who  loved  a 
man  to  raise  objections  to  his  going  out  to  fight  in  a  distant 
country?  Wouldn't  she  prove  her  love  by  raising  objections? 
On  the  other  hand,  wouldn't  a  wpman  who  loved  a  man  in 
the  greatest  way  be  driven  by  the  desire  to  see  him  rise  up 
in  an  emergency  and  prove  his  manhood  at  whatever  cost  to 
her? 

Dion  wanted  one  thing  of  Rosamund  at  this  moment,  wanted 
it  terribly,  with  longing  and  with  fear, —  the  proof  absolute  and 
unhesitating  of  her  love  for  him. 

He  decided  to  volunteer  without  telling  her  beforehand  that 
he  meant  to  do  so.  He  told  no  one  of  his  intention  except  his 
Uncle  Biron,  whom  he  was  obliged  to  consult  as  they  were  part- 
ners in  business. 

"  You're  right,  my  boy,"  said  his  uncle.  "  WV11  get  on  as 
best  we  can  without  you.  We  shall  miss  you,  of  course.  Since 
you've  been  married  your  energy  has  been  most  praiseworthy, 
but,  of  course,  the  nation  comes  before  the  firm.  What  does 
your  mother  say?  " 

Dion  was  struck  with  a  sense  of  wonder  by  this  question. 
Why  didn't  his  uncle  ask  him  what  Rosamund  had  said? 

"  I  haven't  spoken  to  her,"  he  answered. 

"  She'll  wish  you  to  go  in  spite  of  all,"  said  his  uncle 
gravely. 

"  I  haven't  even  spoken  to  Rosamund  of  my  intention  to  en- 
list." 

His  uncle  looked  surprised,  even  for  a  moment  astonished, 
but  he  only  said: 

"  She's  rather  on  heroic  lines,  I  should  judge.  There's  some- 
thing spacious  in  her  nature." 

"Yes,"  said  Dion. 

He  pledged  his  uncle  to  silence.     Then  they  talked  business. 

From  that  moment  Dion  wondered  how  his  mother  would 
take  his  decision.  That  he  had  not  wondered  before  proved 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  243 

to  himself  the  absorbing  character  of  his  love  for  his  wife.  He 
loved  his  mother  very  much,  yet,  till  his  uncle  had  spoken  about 
her  in  the  office,  he  had  only  thought  about  Rosamund  in  con- 
nexion with  his  decision  to  enlist.  The  very  great  thing  had 
swallowed  up  the  big  thing.  There  is  something  ruthless,  al- 
most at  moments  repellent,  in  the  very  great  thing  which  rules  in 
a  man's  life.  But  his  mother  would  never  know. 

That  was  what  he  said  to  himself,  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  his  mother  had  known  and  had  lived  alone  with  her  knowl- 
edge for  years. 

He  offered  himself  for  service  in  South  Africa  with  the  City 
Imperial  Volunteers.  The  doctor  passed  him.  He  was  in- 
formed that  he  would  be  sworn  in  at  the  Guildhall  on  4th  Janu- 
ary. The  great  step  was  taken. 

Why  had  he  taken  it  without  telling  Rosamund  he  was  go- 
ing to  take  it? 

'As  he  came  out  into  the  dark  winter  evening  he  wondered 
about  that  almost  vaguely.  He  must  have  had  a  driving  rea- 
son, but  now  he  did  not  know  what  it  was.  How  was  Rosa- 
mund going  to  take  it?  Suddenly  he  felt  guilty,  as  if  he  had 
done  her  a  wrong.  They  were  one  flesh,  and  in  such  vital  mat- 
ter he  had  not  consulted  her.  Wasn't  it  abominable? 

As  soon  as  he  was  free  he  went  straight  home. 

This  time,  as  he  walked  homeward,  Dion  held  no  inter- 
course with  Westminster.  If  he  heard  the  chimes,  the  voices, 
the  footfalls,  he  was  not  conscious  of  hearing  them;  if  he  saw 
the  vapors  from  the  river,  the  wreaths  of  smoke  from  the  chim- 
neys, the  lights  gleaming  in  the  near  houses  and  far  away  across 
the  dark  mystery  of  the  water,  he  did  not  know  that  he  saw 
them.  In  himself  he  was  imprisoned,  and  against  the  great  city 
in  which  he  walked  he  had  shut  the  doors. 

He  arrived  at  his  house  and  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to 
get  his  latch-key.     Before  he  was  able  to  draw  it  forth  the  green 
door  was  opened  and  Beatrice  came  out. 
'  Dion !  "  she  said,  startled. 
'  You  nearly  ran  over  me!  " 
'  What  is  it?  "  she  asked.     "  What  have  you  done?  " 

But " 

I  know!  "  she  interrupted. 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  took  hold  of  his  coat  sleeve.  The 
action  was  startlingly  impulsive  in  Beatrice,  who  was  always  so 
almost  plaintive,  so  restrained,  so  dim. 

"But  you  can't!  " 


244  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  do.     You  are  going  to  South  Africa." 

He  said  nothing.  How  could  he  tell  Beatrice  before  he  told 
Rosamund  ? 

"  When  are  you  going?  " 

"  Is  Rosamund  in  the  house,  Beattie?  "  he  asked,  very  gently. 

Beatrice  flushed  deeply,  painfully,  and  took  her  hand  from 
his  sleeve. 

"  Yes.  I've  been  playing  with  Robin,  building  castles  with 
the  new  bricks.  Good-by,  Dion." 

She  went  past  him  and  down  the  small  street  rather  quickly. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  her;  then  he  turned  into 
the  house.  As  he  shut  the  door  he  heard  a  chord  struck  on 
the  piano  upstairs  in  Rosamund's  sitting-room.  He  took  off  his 
coat  and  hat  and  came  into  the  little  hall.  As  he  did  so  he 
heard  Rosamund's  voice  beginning  to  sing  Brahms's  "  Wiegen- 
lied "  very  softly.  He  guessed  that  she  was  singing  to  an 
audience  of  Robin.  The  bricks  had  been  put  away  after  the 
departure  of  Aunt  Beattie,  and  now  Robin  was  being  sung  to- 
wards sleep.  How  often  would  he  be  sung  to  by  Rosamund 
in  the  future  when  his  father  would  not  be  there  to  listen! 

Robin  was  going  to  have  his  mother  all  to  himself,  and  Rosa- 
mund was  going  to  have  her  little  son  all  to  herself.  But  they 
did  not  know  that  yet.  The  long  months  of  their  sacred  com- 
panionship stretched  out  before  the  father  as  he  listened  to 
the  lullaby,  which  he  could  only  just  hear.  Rosamund  had 
mastered  the  art  of  withdrawing  her  voice  and  yet  keeping  it 
perfectly  level. 

When  the  song  was  finished,  whispered  away  into  the  spaces 
where  music  disperses  to  carry  on  its  sweet  mission,  Dion  went 
up  the  stairs,  opened  the  door  of  Rosamund's  room,  and  saw 
something  very  simple,  and,  to  him,  very  memorable.  Rosa- 
mund had  turned  on  the  music-stool  and  put  her  right  arm 
round  Robin,  who,  in  his  minute  green  jersey  and  green  knick- 
erbockers, stood  leaning  against  her  with  the  languid  happi- 
ness and  half-wayward  demeanor  of  a  child  who  has  been 
playing,  and  who  already  feels  the  soothing  influence  of  ap- 
proaching night  with  its  gift  of  profound  sleep.  Robin's  cheeks 
were  flushed,  and  in  his  blue  eyes  there  was  a  curious  ex- 
pression, drowsily  imaginative,  as  if  he  were  welcoming  dreams 
which  were  only  for  him.  With  a  faint  smile  on  his  small  rosy 
lips  he  was  listening  while  Rosamund  repeated  to  him  in  Eng- 
lish the  words  of  the  song  she  had  just  been  singing.  Dion 
heard  her  say: 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  245 

"  Sink  to  slumber,  good-night, 
And  angels  of  light 
With  love  you  shall  fold 
As  the  Christ  Child  of  old." 

"  There's  Fa !  "  whispered  Robin,  sending  to  Dion  a  semi- 
roguish  look. 

Dion  held  up  his  hand  and  formed  "  Hush !  "  with  his  lips. 
Rosamund  finished  the  verse: 

"  While  the  stars  dimly  shine 
May  no  sorrow  be  thine." 

She  bent  and  kissed  Robin  on  the  top  of  his  head  just  in  the 
middle,  choosing  the  place,  and  into  his  hair  she  breathed  a 
repetition  of  the  last  words,  "  May  no  sorrow  be  thine." 

And  Dion  was  going  to  the  war. 

Robin  slipped  from  his  mother's  arm  gently  and  came  to  his 
father. 

"  'Allo,  Fa !  "  he  observed  confidentially. 

Dion  bent  down. 

"Hallo,  Robin!" 

He  picked  the  little  chap  up  and  gave  him  a  kiss.  What 
a  small  bundle  of  contentment  Robin  was  at  that  moment.  In 
South  Africa  Dion  often  remembered  just  how  Robin  had  felt 
to  him  then,  intimate  and  a  mystery,  confidential,  sleepy  with 
happiness,  a  tiny  holder  of  the  Divine,  a  willing  revelation  and 
a  soft  secret.  So  much  in  so  little ! 

"  You've  been  playing  with  Auntie  Beattie." 

Robin  acknowledged  it. 

"  Auntie's  putty  good  at  bricks." 

"  Did  you  meet  Beattie,  Dion  ?  "  asked  Rosamund. 

"  On  the  doorstep." 

He  thought  of  Beatrice's  question.  There  was  no  question  in 
Rosamund's  face.  But  perhaps  his  own  face  had  changed. 

A  tap  came  to  the  door. 

"Master  Robin?  "  said  nurse,  in  a  voice  that  held  both  in- 
quiry and  an  admonishing  sound. 

When  Robin  had  gone  off  to  bed,  walking  vaguely  and  full 
of  the  forerunners  of  dreams,  Dion  knew  that  his  hour  had 
come.  He  felt  a  sort  of  great  stillness  within  him,  stillness  of 
presage,  perhaps,  or  of  mere  concentration,  of  the  will  to  be,  to 
do,  to  endure,  whatever  came.  Rosamund  shut  down  the  lid 
of  the  piano  and  came  away  from  the  music-stool.  Dion  looked 


246  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

at  her,  and  thought  of  the  maidens  of  the  porch  and  of  the  col- 
umns of  the  Parthenon. 

"Rosamund,"  he  said, —  that  stillness  within  him  forbade 
any  preparation,  any  "  leading  up," — "  I've  joined  the  City  Im- 
perial Volunteers." 

"The  City  Imperial  Volunteers?  "  she  said. 

He  knew  by  the  sound  of  her  voice  that  she  had  not  grasped 
the  meaning  of  what  he  had  done.  She  looked  surprised,  and  a 
question  was  in  her  brown  eyes. 

"Why?  What  are  they?  I  don't  understand.  And  the 
Artists'  Rifles?" 

"  I've  got  my  transfer  from  them.     I've  joined  for  the  war." 

"  The  war?     Do  you  mean ?  " 

She  came  up  to  him,  looking  suddenly  intent. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  have  volunteered  for  active  service  in 
South  Africa?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Without  consulting  me  ?  " 

Her  whole  face  reddened,  almost  as  it  had  reddened  when  she 
spoke  to  him  about  the  death  of  her  mother. 

"  Yes.  I  haven't  signed  on  yet,  but  the  doctor  has  passed 
me.  I'm  to  be  sworn  in  at  the  Guildhall  on  the  fourth,  I  be- 
lieve. We  shall  sail  very  soon,  almost  directly,  I  suppose. 
They  want  men  out  there." 

He  did  not  know  how  bruskly  he  spoke;  he  was  feeling  too 
much  to  know. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  could  do  such  a  thing  without  speaking 
to  me  first.  My  husband,  and  you !  " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  afraid  of  what  she  might  say  if 
she  went  on  speaking.  Two  deep  lines  appeared  in  her  fore- 
head. For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Dion  saw  an  expression  of 
acute  hostility  in  her  eyes.  She  had  been  angry,  or  almost  an- 
gry with  him  for  a  moment  in  Elis,  when  he  broke  off  the 
branch  of  wild  olive;  but  she  had  not  looked  like  this.  There 
was  something  piercing  in  her  expression  that  was  quite  new 
to  him. 

'  I  felt  I  ought  to  do  it,"  he  said  dully. 

'  Did  you  think  I  should  try  to  prevent  you?  " 

'  No.     I  scarcely  know  what  I  thought." 

'  Have  you  told  your  mother?  " 

'  No.  I  had  to  tell  Uncle  Biron  because  of  the  business. 
Nobody  else  knows." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  247 

And  then  suddenly  he  remembered  Beattie. 

"  At  least  I  haven't  told  any  one  else." 

"  But  some  one  else  does  know  —  knew  before  I  did." 

"  I  saw  Beattie  just  now,  as  I  said.  I  believe  she  guessed. 
I  didn't  tell  her." 

"  But  how  could  she  guess  such  a  thing  if  you  gave  her  no 
hint?  " 

"  That's  just  what  I  have  been  wondering." 

Rosamund  was  silent.  She  went  away  from  him  and  stood 
by  the  fire,  turning  her  back  to  him.  He  waited  for  a  moment, 
then  he  went  to  the  hearth. 

"  Don't  you  think  perhaps  it's  best  for  a  man  to  decide  such 
a  thing  quite  alone?  It's  a  man's  job,  and  each  man  must 
judge  for  himself  what  he  ought  to  do  in  such  a  moment.  If 
you  had  asked  me  not  to  go  I  should  have  felt  bound  to  go  all 
the  same." 

"  But  I  should  have  said  '  Go.'  Then  you  never  understood 
me  in  Greece  ?  All  our  talks  told  you  nothing  about  me  ?  And 
now  Robin  is  here  —  you  thought  I  should  ask  you  not  to  go !  " 

She  turned  round.  She  seemed  almost  passionately  sur- 
prised. 

"  Perhaps  —  in  a  way  —  I  wished  to  think  that." 

"  Why?     Did  you  wish  to  despise  me?  " 

"  Rosamund!     As  if  I  could  ever  do  that." 

"  If  you  did  a  despicable  thing  I  should  despise  you." 

"  Don't!     I  haven't  much  more  time  here." 

"  I  never,  never  shall  be  able  to  understand  how  you  could 
do  this  without  telling  me  beforehand  that  you  were  going  to 
do  it." 

"  It  wasn't  from  any  want  of  respect  or  love  for  you." 

"  I  can't  talk  about  it  any  more  just  now." 

The  flush  on  her  face  deepened.  She  turned  and  went  out 
of  the  room. 

Dion  was  painfully  affected.  He  had  never  before  had  a 
serious  disagreement  with  Rosamund.  It  was  almost  intoler- 
able to  have  one  now  on  the  eve  of  departure  from  her.  He 
felt  like  one  who  had  committed  an  outrage  out  of  the  depths 
of  a  terrible  hunger,  a  hunger  of  curiosity.  He  knew  now  why 
he  had  volunteered  for  active  service  without  consulting  Rosa- 
mund. Obscurely  his  nature  had  spoken,  saying,  "  Put  her  to 
the  test  and  make  the  test  drastic."  And  he  had  obeyed  the 
command.  He  had  wanted  to  know,  to  find  out  suddenly,  in 


248  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  moment,  the  exact  truth  of  years.  And  now  he  had  roused  a 
passion  of  anger  in  Rosamund. 

Her  anger  wrapped  him  in  pain  such  as  he  had  never  felt 
till  now. 

The  house  seemed  full  of  menace.  In  the  little  room  the  at- 
mosphere was  changed.  He  looked  round  it  and  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  Hermes.  He  went  up  to  it  and  stood  before  it. 

Instantly  he  felt  again  the  exquisite  calm  of  Elis.  The  face 
of  the  Hermes  made  the  thought  of  war  seem  horrible  and  ri- 
diculous. Men  had  learnt  so  much  when  Praxiteles  created  his 
Hermes,  and  they  knew  so  little  now.  The  enigma  of  their 
violence  was  as  great  as  the  enigma  of  the  celestial  calm  which 
the  old  Greeks  had  perpetuated  to  be  forever  the  joy  and  the 
rest  of  humanity.  And  he,  Dion,  was  going  to  take  an  active 
part  in  violence.  The  enchanting  serenity  of  the  Hermes,  which 
brought  all  Elis  before  him,  with  its  green  sights  and  its  won- 
derful sounds,  of  the  drowsy  insects  in  the  sunshine,  of  the 
sheep-bells,  and  of  the  pines  whose  voices  hold  within  them  all 
the  eternal  secrets,  increased  the  intensity  of  his  misery.  He 
realized  how  unstable  are  the  foundations  of  human  happiness, 
and  his  house  of  life  seemed  crumbling  about  him. 

Presently  he  went  downstairs  to  his  room  and  wrote  letters 
to  his  mother  and  to  Bruce  Evelin,  telling  them  what  he  had 
done. 

When  he  had  directed  and  stamped  these  letters  he  thought 
of  Beattie  and  Guy.  Beattie  knew.  What  was  it  which  had 
led  her  so  instantly  to  a  knowledge  denied  to  Rosamund? 
Rosamund  had  evidently  not  noticed  any  difference  in  him  when 
he  came  in  that  evening.  But,  to  be  sure,  Robin  had  been 
there. 

Robin  had  been  there. 

Dion  sat  before  the  writing-table  for  a  long  while  doing  noth- 
ing. Then  a  clock  struck.  He  had  only  half  an  hour  to 
spare  before  dinner  would  be  ready.  Quickly  he  wrote  a  few 
words  to  Beattie: 

"  MY  DEAR  BEATTIE, —  You  were  right.  I  have  volunteered 
for  active  service  and  shall  soon  be  off  to  South  Africa.  I  don't 
know  yet  exactly  when  we  shall  start,  but  I  expect  they'll  hurry 
us  off  as  quickly  as  they  can.  Men  are  wanted  out  there  badly. 
Lots  of  fellows  are  coming  forward.  I'll  tell  you  more  when  I 
see  you  again.  Messages  to  Guy. —  Yours  affectionately, 

"  DION  " 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  249 

It  was  not  an  eloquent  letter,  but  Beattie  would  understand. 
Beattie  was  not  a  great  talker  but  she  was  a  great  under- 
stander.  He  went  out  to  put  the  three  letters  into  the  pillar- 
box.  Then  he  hurried  upstairs  to  his  dressing-room.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  almost  dreaded  spending  an  evening 
alone  with  Rosamund. 

He  did  not  see  her  till  he  came  into  the  drawing-room.  As 
he  opened  the  door  he  saw  her  sitting  by  the  fire  reading,  in  a 
dark  blue  dress. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  late,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  to  the  hearth. 
"  I  wrote  to  mother,  Beattie  and  godfather  to  tell  them  what  I 
was  going  to  do." 

"  What  you  had  done,"  she  said  quietly,  putting  down  the 
book. 

"  I  haven't  actually  been  sworn  in  yet,  but  of  course  it  is 
practically  the  same  thing." 

He  looked  at  her  almost  surreptitiously.  She  was  very 
grave,  but  there  was  absolutely  nothing  hostile  or  angry  in  her 
expression  or  manner.  They  went  into  the  dining-room,  and 
talked  together  much  as  usual  during  dinner.  As  soon  as  din- 
ner was  over,  and  the  parlor-maid  had  gone  out,  having  finished 
her  ministrations,  which  to  Dion  that  night  had  seemed  innu- 
merable and  well-nigh  unbearable,  he  said: 

"  I'm  dreadfully  sorry  about  to-day.  I  did  the  wrong  thing 
in  volunteering  without  saying  anything  to  you.  Of  course  you 
were  hurt  and  startled " 

He  looked  at  her  and  paused. 

"  Yes,  I  was.  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  have  done  what  you  did.  But  you  have  made  a  great  sacri- 
fice—  very  great.  I  only  want  to  think  of  that,  Dion,  of  how 
much  you  are  giving  up,  and  of  the  cause  —  our  cause." 

She  spoke  very  earnestly  and  sincerely,  and  her  eyes  looked 
serious  and  very  kind. 

"  Don't  let  us  go  back  to  anything  sad,  or  to  any  misunder- 
standing now,"  she  continued.  "  You  are  doing  an  admirable 
thing,  and  I  shall  always  be  glad  you  had  the  will  to  do  it, 
were  able  to  do  it.  Tell  me  everything.  I  want  to  live  in  your 
new  life  as  much  as  I  can.  I  want  you  to  feel  me  in  it  as  much 
as  you  can." 

"  She  has  prayed  over  it.  While  I  was  writing  my  letters  she 
was  praying  over  it." 

Suddenly  Dion  knew  this  as  if  Rosamund  had  opened  her 
heart  to  him  and  had  told  it.  And  immediately  something 


250  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

which  was  like  a  great  light  seemed  not  only  to  illumine  the 
present  moment  but  also  to  throw  a  piercing  ray  backwards 
upon  all  his  past  life  with  Rosamund.  In  the  light  of  this 
ray  he  discerned  a  shadowy  something,  which  stood  between 
Rosamund  and  him,  keeping  them  always  apart.  It  was  a 
tremendous  Presence;  his  feeling  was  that  it  was  the  Presence 
of  God.  Abruptly  he  seemed  to  be  aware  that  God  had  always 
stood,  was  standing  now,  between  him  and  his  wife.  He  re- 
membered the  words  in  the  marriage  service,  "  Those  whom 
God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder."  "  But 
God,"  he  thought,  "  did  not  join  us.  He  stood  between  us 
always.  He  stands  between  us  now."  It  was  an  awful 
thought.  It  was  like  a  great  blasphemy.  He  was  afraid  of 
it.  And  yet  he  now  felt  that  it  was  an  old,  old  thought  in  his 
mind  which  only  now  had  he  been  able  to  formulate.  He  had 
known  without  knowing  consciously,  but  now  he  consciously 
knew. 

He  took  care  at  this  moment  not  to  look  at  Rosamund.  If  he 
looked,  surely  she  would  see  in  his  eyes  his  terrible  thought, 
the  thought  he  was  going  to  carry  with  him  to  South  Africa. 
Making  a  -great  effort  he  began  to  tell  her  all  that  he  knew 
about  the  C.I.V.  They  discussed  matters  in  a  comradely  spirit. 
Rosamund  said  many  warm-hearted  things,  showed  herself 
almost  eagerly  solicitous.  They  went  up  to  sit  by  the  fire  in 
her  little  room.  Dion  smoked.  They  talked  for  a  long  time. 
Had  any  one  been  there  to  listen  he  would  probably  have 
thought,  "  This  man  has  got  the  ideal  wife.  She's  a  true 
comrade  as  well  as  a  wife."  But  all  the  time  Dion  kept  on 
saying  to  himself,  "  This  is  the  result  of  her  prayers  before 
dinner.  She  is  being  good."  Only  when  it  was  late,  past 
their  usual  hour  for  going  to  bed,  did  he  feel  that  the  strong 
humanity  in  Rosamund  had  definitely  gained  ground,  that  she 
was  being  genuinely  carried  away  by  warm  impulses  connected 
with  dear  England,  our  men,  and  with  him. 

When  they  got  up  at  last  to  go  to  bed  she  exclaimed: 

"  I  shall  always  love  what  you  have  done,  Dion.  You  know 
that." 

"  But  not  the  way  of  my  doing  it!  "  trembled  on  his  lips. 

He  did  not  say  it,  however.  Why  lead  her  back  even  for 
a  moment  to  bitterness? 

That  night  he  lay  with  his  thought,  and  in  the  darkness  the 
ray  was  piercing  bright  and  looked  keen  like  a  sharpened  sword. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  251 


CHAPTER  II 

ON  the  fourth  of  January  Dion  and  about  nine  hundred 
other  men  were  sworn  in  at  the  Guildhall;  on  January 
the  seventeenth,  eight  hundred  of  them,  including 
Dion,  were  presented  with  the  Freedom  of  the  City  of  London; 
on  the  nineteenth  they  were  equipped  and  attended  a  farewell 
service  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  after  which  they  were  enter- 
tained at  supper,  some  at  Gray's  Inn  and  some  at  Lincoln's 
Inn;  on  the  twentieth  they  entrained  for  Southampton,  from 
which  port  they  sailed  in  the  afternoon  for  South  Africa. 
Dion  was  on  board  of  the  "  Ariosto." 

Strangely,  perhaps,  he  was  almost  glad  when  the  ship  cast 
off  and  the  shores  of  England  faded  and  presently  were  lost 
beyond  the  horizon  line.  He  was  alone  now  with  his  duty. 
Life  was  suddenly  simplified.  It  was  better  so.  In  the  last 
days  he  had  often  felt  confused,  beset,  had  often  felt  that  he 
was  struggling  in  a  sea  of  complications  which  threatened  to 
overwhelm  him.  There  had  been  too  much  to  do  and  there 
had  been  too  much  to  endure;  he  had  been  obliged  to  be  prac- 
tical when  he  was  feeling  intensely  emotional.  The  effort  to 
dominate  and  to  conceal  his  emotion  had  sometimes  almost 
exhausted  him  in  the  midst  of  all  he  had  had  to  do.  He  had 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  it  is  the  work  of  the 
spirit  which  leaves  the  whole  man  tired.  He  was  weary,  not 
from  hard  energies  connected  with  his  new  profession,  not  from 
getting  up  at  dawn,  marching  through  dense  crowds  of  cheering 
countrymen,  traveling,  settling  in  on  shipboard,  but  from  fare- 
wells. He  looked  back  now  upon  a  sort  of  panorama  of  fare- 
wells, of  partings  from  his  mother,  his  uncle,  Bruce  Evelin, 
Guy,  Beatrice,  Robin,  Rosamund. 

Quite  possibly  all  these  human  companions  had  vanished  out 
of  his  life  for  ever.  It  was  a  tremendous  thought,  upon  which 
he  was  resolved  not  to  dwell  lest  his  courage  and  his  energies 
might  be  weakened. 

Through  good-bys  a  man  may  come  to  knowledge,  and  Dion 
had,  in  these  last  few  days,  gone  down  to  the  bedrock  of  knowl- 
edge concerning  some  of  those  few  who  were  intimately  in  his 
life  —  knowledge  of  them  and  also  of  himself.  Nobody  had 
traveled  to  Southampton  to  see  him  off.  He  had  a  very  English 
horror  of  scenes,  and  had  said  all  his  good-bys  in  private. 
With  Bruce  Evelin  he  had  had  a  long  talk;  they  had  spoken 


252  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

frankly  together  about  the  future  of  Rosamund  and  Robin  in 
the  event  of  his  not  coming  back.  Dion  had  expressed  his 
views  on  the  bringing  up  of  the  boy,  and,  in  doing  so,  had  let 
Bruce  Evelin  into  secrets  of  Greece.  The  father  did  not  ex- 
pect, perhaps  did  not  even  desire,  that  the  little  son  should 
develop  into  a  paragon,  but  he  did  desire  for  Rosamund's 
child  the  strong  soul  in  the  strong  body,  and  the  soft  heart  that 
was  not  a  softy's  heart. 

In  that  conversation  Bruce  Evelin  had  learnt  a  great  deal 
about  Dion.  They  had  spoken  of  Rosamund,  perhaps  more 
intimately  than  they  had  ever  spoken  before,  and  Dion  had 
said,  "  I'm  bothering  so  much  about  Robin  partly  because  her 
life  is  bound  up  with  Robin's." 

"  Several  lives  are  bound  up  with  that  little  chap's,"  Bruce 
Evelin  had  said. 

And  a  sudden  sense  of  loneliness  had  come  upon  Dion.  But 
he  had  only  made  some  apparently  casual  remark  to  the  effect 
that  he  knew  Bruce  Evelin  would  do  his  best  to  see  that  Robin 
came  to  no  harm.  No  absurd  and  unnecessary  promises  had 
been  exchanged  between  the  old  and  the  young  man.  Their 
talk  had  been  British,  often  seemingly  casual,  and  nearly 
always  touched  with  deep  feeling.  It  had  not  opened  to  Dion 
new  vistas  of  Bruce  Evelin.  For  a  long  time  Dion  had  felt 
that  he  knew  Bruce  Evelin.  But  it  had  given  him  a  definite 
revelation  of  the  strong  faithfulness,  the  tenacity  of  faithfulness 
in  friendship,  which  was  perhaps  the  keynote  of  Bruce  Evelin's 
character. 

The  parting  from  Guy  had  been  less  eventful.  Neverthe- 
less it  had  helped  to  get  rid  of  certain  faint  misunderstandings 
which  neither  of  the  friends  had  ever  acknowledged.  Since 
the  Mrs.  Clarke  episode  Dion  had  been  aware  that  Guy's  feel- 
ing towards  him  had  slightly  changed.  They  were  such  old 
and  tried  friends  that  they  would  always  care  for  each  other, 
but  Guy  could  not  help  resenting  Rosamund's  treatment  of 
Mrs.  Clarke,  could  not  help  considering  Dion's  acquiescence  in 
it  a  sign  of  weakness.  These  feelings,  unexpressed,  but  under- 
stood by  Dion,  had  set  up  a  slight  barrier  between  the  two 
young  men ;  it  had  fallen  when  they  said  good-by.  Mrs.  Clarke 
had  been  forgotten  then  by  Guy,  who  had  only  remembered 
the  gifts  of  war,  and  that  possibly  this  was  his  final  sight 
of  old  Dion.  All  their  common  memories  had  been  with  them 
when  the  last  hand-clasp  was  given,  and  perhaps  only  when 
their  hands  fell  apart  had  they  thoroughly  tested  at  last  the 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  253 

strength  of  the  link  between  them.  They  were  friends  for 
life  without  knowing  exactly  why.  Thousands  of  Englishmen 
were  in  the  same  case. 

Dion  had  gone  to  De  Lome  Mansions  to  bid  good-by  to 
Beattie,  and  with  her,  too,  he  had  talked  about  Robin.  Beattie 
had  known  when  Dion  was  coming,  and  had  taken  care  to  be 
alone.  Always  quiet,  she  had  seemed  to  Dion  quieter  even 
than  usual  in  that  final  hour  by  the  fire,  almost  singularly 
timid  and  repressed.  There  had  even  been  moments  when 
she  had  seemed  to  him  cold.  But  the  coldness  —  if  really 
there  had  been  any  —  had  been  in  her  manner,  perhaps  in  her 
voice,  but  had  been  absent  from  her  face.  They  had  sat  in 
the  firelight,  which  Beattie  was  always  fond  of,  and  Dion  had 
not  been  able  to  see  her  quite  clearly.  If  the  electric  light 
had  been  turned  on  she  might  have  told  him  more;  but  she 
surely  would  not  have  told  him  of  the  quiet  indifference  which 
manner  and  voice  and  even  inexpressive  attitude  had  seemed 
to  be  endeavoring  to  convey  to  him.  For  Beattie's  only  half- 
revealed  face  had  looked  eloquent  in  the  firelight,  eloquent  of 
a  sympathy  and  even  of  a  sorrow  she  had  said  very  little  about. 
Whenever  Dion  had  begun  to  feel  slightly  chilled  he  had  looked 
at  her,  and  the  face  in  the  firelight  had  reassured  him. 
"  Beattie  does  care,"  he  had  thought;  and  he  had  realized  how 
much  he  wanted  Beattie  to  care,  how  he  had  come  to  depend 
upon  Beattie's  sisterly  affection  and  gentle  but  deep  interest 
in  all  the  course  of  his  life. 

Quickly,  too  quickly,  the  moment  had  come  for  him  to  say 
the  last  word  to  Beattie,  and  suddenly  he  had  felt  shy.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  that  something  in  Beattie  —  he  could  not  have 
said  what  —  had  brought  about  this  unusual  sensation  in  him. 
He  had  got  up  abruptly  with  a  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be  off 
now!  "  and  had  thrust  out  his  hand.  He  had  felt  that  his 
manner  and  action  were  almost  awkward  and  hard.  Beattie 
had  got  up  too  in  a  way  that  looked  listless. 

'Are  you  well,  Beattie?"  he  had  asked. 

'  Quite  well." 

'  Perhaps  you  are  tired?  " 

'  No." 

'  I  fancied  —  well,  good-by,  Beattie." 

'  Good-by,  Dion." 

That  had  been  all.  At  the  door  he  had  looked  round,  and 
had  seen  Beattie  standing  with  her  back  to  liim  and  her  face 
to  the  firelight,  stooping  slightly,  and  he  had  felt  a  strong  im- 


254  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

pulse  to  go  to  her  again,  and  to  —  he  hardly  knew  what  —  to 
say  good-by  again,  perhaps,  in  a  different,  more  affectionate  or 
more  tender  way.  But  he  had  not  done  it.  Instead  he  had 
gone  out  and  had  shut  the  door  behind  him  very  quietly.  It 
was  odd  that  Beattie  had  not  even  looked  after  him.  Surely 
people  generally  did  that  when  a  friend  was  going  away,  per- 
haps for  ever.  But  Beattie  was  different  from  other  people, 
and  somehow  he  was  quite  sure  she  cared. 

The  three  last  good-bys  had  been  said  to  his  mother,  Robin 
and  Rosamund,  in  Queen  Anne's  Mansions  and  Little  Market 
Street.  He  had  stayed  with  his  mother  for  nearly  two  hours. 
She  had  a  very  bad  cold,  unbecoming,  complicated  with  fits 
of  sneezing,  a  cold  in  the  "  three  handkerchiefs  an  hour " 
stage.  And  this  commonplace  malady  had  made  him  feel  very 
tender  about  her,  and  oddly  pitiful  about  all  humanity,  includ- 
ing, of  course,  himself.  While  they  talked  he  had  thought 
several  times,  "  It's  hard  to  see  mother  in  such  a  state  when 
perhaps  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  I  don't  want  to  remember 
her  with  a  cold."  And  the  thought,  "  I  shan't  be  here  to  see 
her  get  well,"  had  pained  him  acutely. 

"  I'm  looking  and  feeling  glazed,  dee-ar,"  had  been  her 
greeting  to  him.  "  My  nose  is  shiny  and  my  mind  is  woolly. 
I  don't  think  you  ought  to  kiss  me  or  talk  to  me." 

And  then  he  had  kissed  her,  and  they  had  talked,  intimately, 
sincerely.  In  those  last  hours  mercifully  Dion  had  not  felt 
shy  with  his  mother.  But  perhaps  this  was  because  she  was 
never  shy,  not  even  in  tenderness  or  in  sorrow.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  herself.  They  had  even  been  able  to  discuss  the 
possibility  of  his  being  killed  in  the  war,  and  Mrs.  Leith  had 
been  quite  simple  about  it,  laying  aside  all  her  usual  elaboration 
of  manner. 

"  The  saddest  result  of  such  an  honorable  and  noble  end 
would  be  the  loss  to  Robin,  I  think,"  she  had  said. 

"To  Robin?     But  he's  got  such  a  mother!  " 

"  Do  you  think  he  doesn't  need,  won't  need  much  more  later 
on,  the  father  he's  got?  Dion,  my  son,  humility  is  a  virtue, 
no  doubt,  but  I  don't  believe  in  excess  even  in  the  practice  of 
virtue,  and  sometimes  I  think  you  do." 

"  I  didn't  know  it." 

"  This  going  to  the  war  is  a  splendid  thing  for  you.  I 
wouldn't  have  you  out  of  it  even  though " 

Here  she  had  been  overcome  by  a  tremendous  fit  of  sneezing 
from  which  she  had  emerged  with  the  smiling  remark: 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  255 

"  I'm  not  permitted  to  improve  the  occasion." 

"  I  believe  I  know  what  you  mean.  Perhaps  you're  right, 
mother.  You're  cleverer  than  I  am.  Still  I  can't  help  seeing 
that  Robin's  got  a  mother  such  as  few  children  have.  Look 
round  at  all  the  mothers  you  know  in  London!  " 

"  Yes.  Rosamund  was  created  to  be  a  mother.  But  just 
to-day  I  want  to  look  at  Robin's  father." 

And  so  they  had  talked  of  him. 

That  talk  had  done  Dion  good.  It  had  set  his  face  towards 
a  shining  future.  If  he  came  back  from  the  war  he  now  felt, 
through  the  feeling  of  his  mother,  that  he  would  surely  come 
back  tempered,  tried,  better  fitted  to  Robin's  uses,  more  worthy 
of  any  woman's  gift  of  herself.  Without  preaching,  even  with- 
out being  remarkably  definite,  his  mother  had  made  him  see 
in  this  distant  war  a  great  opportunity,  not  to  win  a  V.C.  or 
any  splashing  honor  that  would  raise  him  up  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  but  to  reach  out  and  grip  hold  of  his  own  best  possi- 
bilities. Had  his  mother  done  even  more  than  this?  Had  she 
set  before  him  some  other  goal  which  the  war  might  enable 
him  to  gain  if  he  had  not  already  gained  it?  Had  she  been 
very  subtle  when  seeming  to  be  very  direct?  Even  when  she 
held  him  in  her  arms  —  despite  the  cold !  —  and  gave  him 
the  final  kiss  and  blessing,  he  was  not  sure.  If  it  had  been 
done  it  had  been  done  with  extraordinary  delicacy,  with  the 
marvelous  cunning  of  clever  love  which  knows  how  to  avoid 
all  the  pitfalls.  And  it  had  been  done,  too,  with  the  marvelous 
unselfishness  of  which,  perhaps,  only  the  highest  type  of  mother- 
love  is  capable. 

After  he  had  left  his  mother,  and  was  just  going  out  of  the 
flat,  Dion  had  heard  through  the  half-open  door  a  sound,  a 
ridiculous  sound,  which  had  made  him  love  her  terribly,  and 
with  the  sudden  yearning  which  is  the  keenest  pain  of  the  heart 
because  it  defines  all  the  human  limitations:  she  was  sneezing 
again  violently.  As  he  shut  the  front  door,  "  If  she  were  to 
die  while  I'm  away,  and  I  were  to  come  back!  "  had  stabbed 
his  mind.  Outside  in  the  court  he  had  gazed  up  at  the  towering 
rows  of  lighted  windows  and  had  said  another  good-by  out 
there. 

Shutting  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  the  "  Ariosto  "  plowed 
her  way  onwards  through  a  rather  malignant  sea,  Dion  saw 
again  those  rows  of  lighted  windows,  and  he  wondered,  almost 
as  earnestly  as  a  child  wonders,  whether  his  mother's  cold  was 
better.  What  he  had  done,  volunteering  for  active  service  and 


256  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

joining  the  C.I.V.  battalion,  had  made  him  feel  simpler  than 
usual;  but  he  did  not  know  it,  did  not  look  on  at  his  own 
simplicity. 

And  then,  last  of  all,  had  come  the  parting  from  Robin  and 
Rosamund. 

Rosamund  and  Dion  had  agreed  not  to  make  very  much 
of  his  departure  to  Robin.  Father  was  going  away  for  a  time, 
going  over  the  sea  picturesquely,  with  a  lot  of  friends,  all  men, 
all  happy  to  be  together  and  to  see  wonderful  things  in  a 
country  quite  different  from  England.  Some  day,  when  Robin 
was  as  big  as  father,  perhaps  he,  too,  would  make  such  a  voyage 
with  his  friends.  Robin  had  been  deeply  interested,  and  had 
shown  his  usual  ardor  in  comment  and  —  this  was  more  em- 
barrassing —  in  research.  He  had  wanted  to  know  a  great 
deal  about  father's  intentions  and  the  intentions  of  father's 
numerous  male  friends.  What  were  they  going  to  do  when 
they  arrived  in  the  extremely  odd  country  which  had  taken  it 
into  its  head  to  be  different  from  England?  How  many  male 
friends  was  father  taking  with  him?  Why  hadn't  they  all 
been  to  "  see  us  "?  Was  Uncle  Guy  one  of  them?  Was  Mr. 
Thrush  going  too?  Why  wasn't  Mr.  Thrush  going?  If  he 
was  too  old  to  go  was  Uncle  Guy  too  old?  Did  Mr.  Thrush 
want  to  go?  Was  he  disappointed  at  father's  not  being  able 
to  take  him  ?  Was  it  all  a  holiday  for  father  ?  Would  mummy 
have  liked  to  go?  No  lies  had  been  told  to  Robin,  but  some 
of  the  information  he  had  sought  had  been  withheld.  Dion 
had  made  skilful  use  of  Mr.  Thrush  when  matters  had  become 
difficult,  when  Robin  had  nearly  driven  him  into  a  corner. 
The  ex-chemist,  though  seldom  seen,  loomed  large  in  Robin's 
world,  on  account  of  his  impressive  coloring  and  ancient  re- 
spectabilities. Robin  regarded  him  with  awful  admiration, 
and  looked  forward  to  growing  like  him  in  some  far  distant 
future.  Dion  had  frequently  ridden  off  from  difficult  ques- 
tions on  Mr.  Thrush.  Even  in  the  final  interview  between 
father  and  son  Mr.  Thrush  had  been  much  discussed. 

The  final  interview  had  taken  place  in  the  nursery  among 
Aunt  Beattie's  bricks,  by  which  Robin  was  still  obsessed.  Dion 
had  sat  on  the  floor  and  built  towers  with  his  boy,  and  had 
wondered,  as  he  handled  the  bricks  in  the  shining  of  the 
nursery  fire,  whether  he  would  come  back  to  help  Robin  with 
his  building  later  on.  He  was  going  out  to  build,  for  England 
and  for  himself,  perhaps  for  Robin  and  Rosamund,  too.  Would 
he  be  allowed  to  see  the  fruits  of  his  labors? 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  257 

The  tower  of  bricks  had  grown  high,  and  with  it  Dion  had 
built  up  another  tower,  unknown  to  Robin,  a  tower  of  hopes 
for  the  child.  So  much  ardor  in  so  tiny  a  frame!  It  was  a 
revelation  of  the  wonder  of  life.  \Yhat  a  marvel  to  have  helped 
to  create  that  life  and  what  a  responsibility.  And  he  was 
going  away  to  destroy  life,  if  possible.  The  grotesqueness  of 
war  had  come  upon  him  then,  as  he  had  built  up  the  tower 
with  Robin.  And  he  had  longed  for  a  released  world  in  which 
his  boy  might  be  allowed  to  walk  as  a  man.  The  simplicity 
of  Robin,  his  complete  trustfulness,  his  eager  appreciation  of 
human  nature,  his  constant  reaching  out  after  kindness  without 
fear  of  being  denied,  seemed  to  imply  a  world  other  than  the 
world  which  must  keep  on  letting  blood  in  order  to  get  along. 
Robin,  and  all  the  other  Robins,  female  and  male,  revealed 
war  in  its  true  light.  Terrible  children  whose  unconscious 
comment  on  life  bites  deep  like  an  acid!  Terrible  Robin  in 
that  last  hour  with  the  bricks! 

When  the  tower  had  become  a  marvel  such  as  had  been  seen 
in  no  nursery  before,  Dion  had  suggested  letting  it  be.  An- 
other brick  and  it  must  surely  fall.  The  moment  was  at  hand 
when  he  must  see  the  last  of  Robin.  He  had  had  a  furtive  but 
strong  desire  to  see  the  tower  he  and  his  son  had  built  still 
standing  slenderly  erect  when  he  went  out  of  the  nursery.  Just 
then  he  had  been  the  man  who  seeks  a  good  omen.  Robin 
had  agreed  with  his  suggestion  after  a  long  moment  of  rapt 
contemplation  of  the  tower. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Thush  could  see  it,"  he  had  observed,  laying 
down  the  brick  he  had  taken  up  to  add  to  the  tower  just  before 
his  father  had  spoken.  "  He  would  be  pleased." 

The  words  had  been  lifted  out  on  a  sigh,  the  sigh  of  the 
wonder-worker  who  had  achieved  his  mission.  And  then  they 
had  talked  of  Mr.  Thrush,  sitting  carefully,  almost  motionless, 
beside  the  tower,  and  speaking  softly  "  for  fear."  The  fire- 
light had  danced  upon  the  yellow  bricks  and  upon  the  cream- 
colored  nursery  walls,  filtering  through  the  high  nursery 
"  guard  "  which  protected  Robin  from  annihilation  by  fire,  and 
the  whisper,  whisper  of  their  voices  had  only  emphasized  the 
quiet.  And,  with  every  moment  that  went  by,  the  lit-up  tower 
had  seemed  more  like  a  symbol  to  Dion.  Then  at  last  the 
cuckoo-clock  had  chimed  and  the  wooden  bird,  with  trembling 
tail,  hnd  made  its  jerky  obeisance. 

"Cuckoo!" 

Dion  had  put  his  arm  round  the  little  figure  in  the  green 


258  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

jersey  and  the  tiny  knickerbockers,  and  had  whispered,  still 
governed  by  the  tower: 

"  I  must  go  now,  Robin." 

"  Good-by,  Fa,"  Robin  had  whispered  back,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  tower." 

With  a  very  careful  movement  he  had  lifted  his  face  to  be 
kissed,  and  on  his  soft  lips  Dion  had  felt  a  certain  remoteness. 
Did  the  tower  stand  between  him  and  his  little  son  as  he  said 
good-by  to  Robin? 

Just  as  he  had  reluctantly  let  Robin  go  and,  with  his  legs 
crossed,  had  been  about  to  perform  the  feat  of  getting  up  with- 
out touching  the  floor  with  his  hands,  and  without  shaking  the 
bricks  in  their  places, —  moved  to  this  trifling  bodily  feat  by 
the  desire  to  confront  his  emotion  with  an  adversary, —  the  door 
behind  him  had  been  opened.  Already  in  movement  he  had 
instinctively  half-turned  round.  Something  had  happened, — 
he  never  knew  exactly  what, —  something  had  escaped  from  his 
physical  control  because  his  mind  had  abruptly  been  deflected 
from  its  task  of  vigilance;  there  had  been  a  crash  and  a  cry 
of  "  Oh,  Fa!  "  from  Robin,  and  he  had  met  Rosamund's  eyes 
as  the  tower  toppled  down  in  ruin.  Not  so  much  as  one  brick 
had  been  left  upon  another. 

Robin  had  been  greatly  distressed.  Tears  had  come  into  his 
eyes,  and  for  a  moment  he  had  looked  reproachfully  at  his 
father.  Then,  almost  immediately,  something  chivalrous  had 
spoken  within  him,  admonishing  him,  and  he  had  managed 
a  smile. 

"  It'll  be  higher  next  time,  Fa,  won't  it?  "  he  had  murmured, 
still  evidently  fighting  a  keen  disappointment. 

And  Dion  had  caught  him  up,  given  him  a  hug,  whispered 
"My  boy!  "  to  him,  put  him  down  and  gone  straight  out  of 
the  room  with  Rosamund,  who  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

And  that  had  been  the  last  of  Robin  for  his  father. 

In  the  evening,  when  Robin  was  asleep,  Dion  had  said 
good-by  to  Rosamund.  The  catastrophe  of  the  tower  of  bricks 
had  haunted  his  mind.  As  he  had  chosen  to  make  of  the  tower 
an  omen,  in  its  destruction  he  had  found  a  presage  of  evil 
which  depressed  him,  which  even  woke  in  him  ugly  fears  of 
the  future.  He  had  had  a  great  deal  out  of  life,  not  all  he  had 
wanted,  but  still  a  great  deal.  Perhaps  he  was  not  going  to 
have  much  more.  He  had  not  spoken  of  his  fears  to  Rosa- 
mund, but  had  been  resolutely  cheerful  with  her  in  their  last 
conversation.  Neither  of  them  had  mentioned  the  possibility 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  259 

of  his  not  coming  back.  They  had  talked  of  what  probably 
lay  before  him  in  South  Africa,  and  of  Robin,  and  presently 
Rosamund  had  said: 

"  I  want  to  make  a  suggestion.  Will  you  promise  to  tell 
me  if  you  dislike  it?  " 

"Yes.     What  is  it?" 

"  Would  you  mind  if  I  succeeded  in  letting  this  house  and 
went  into  the  country  with  Robin  to  wait  for  your  coming 
back?" 

"  Letting  it  furnished,  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  won't  you  be  dull  in  the  country,  away  from  mother, 
and  Beattie,  and  godfather,  and  all  our  friends?  " 

"  I  could  never  be  dull  with  Robin  and  nature,  never,  and  I 
wouldn't  go  very  far  from  London.  I  thought  of  something 
near  Welsley." 

"  So  that  you  could  go  in  to  Cathedral  service  when  '  The 
Wilderness  '  was  sung!  " 

He  had  smiled  as  he  had  said  it,  but  his  own  reference  to 
Rosamund's  once-spoken-of  love  of  the  wilderness  had,  in  a 
flash,  brought  the  hill  of  Drouva  before  him,  and  he  had  faced 
man's  tragedy  —  remembered  joys  of  the  past  in  a  shadowed 
present. 

"  Go  into  the  country,  Rose.  I  only  want  you  to  be  happy, 
but  " —  he  had  hesitated,  and  then  had  added,  almost  in  spite 
of  himself  — "  but  not  too  happy." 

Not  too  happy!  That  really  was  the  great  fear  at  his  heart 
now  that  he  was  voyaging  towards  South  Africa,  that  Rosamund 
would  be  too  happy  without  him.  He  no  longer  deceived  him- 
self. This  drastic  change  in  his  life  had  either  taught  him 
to  face  realities,  or  simply  prevented  him  from  being  able  to 
do  anything  else.  He  told  himself  the  truth,  and  it  was  this, 
that  Rosamund  did  not  love  him  at  all  as  he  loved  her.  She 
was  fond  of  him,  she  trusted  him,  she  got  on  excellently  with 
him,  she  believed  in  him,  she  even  admired  him  for  having 
been  able  to  live  as  he  had  lived  before  their  marriage,  but 
she  did  not  passionately  love  him.  He  might  have  been  tempted 
to  think  that,  with  all  her  fine,  even  splendid,  qualities,  she 
was  deprived  of  the  power  of  loving  intensely  if  he  had  not 
seen  her  with  Robin,  if  he  had  not  once  spoken  with  her  about 
her  mother. 

If  he  were  killed  in  South  Africa  would  Rosamund  be  angry 
at  his  death?  That  was  her  greatest  tribute,  anger,  directed 


26o  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

surely  not  against  any  human  being,  but  against  the  God  Whom 
she  loved  and  Who,  so  she  believed,  ruled  the  world  and 
directed  the  ways  of  men.  Once  Rosamund  had  said  that  she 
knew  it  was  possible  for  human  beings  to  hurt  God.  She 
had  doubtless  spoken  out  of  the  depths  of  her  personal  ex- 
perience. She  had  felt  sure  that  by  her  anger  at  the  death  of 
her  mother  she  had  hurt  God.  Such  a  conviction  showed  how 
she  thought  of  God,  in  what  a  closeness  of  relation  with  God 
she  felt  herself  to  be.  Dion  knew  now  that  she  had  loved  her 
mother,  that  she  loved  Robin,  as  she  did  not  love  him.  If  he 
were  to  die  she  would  be  very  sorry,  but  she  would  not  be 
very  angry.  No,  she  would  be  able  to  breathe  out  a  "  x<upe!  " 
simply,  with  a  resignation  comparable  to  that  of  the  Greeks 
on  those  tombs  which  she  loved,  and  then  —  she  would  con- 
centrate on  Robin. 

If  he,  Dion,  were  to  be  shot,  and  had  time  for  a  thought 
before  dying,  he  knew  what  his  thought  would  be:  that  the 
Boer's  bullet  had  only  hit  a  man,  not,  like  so  many  bullets  fired 
in  war,  a  man  and  a  woman.  And  that  thought  would  add  an 
exquisite  bitterness  to  the  normal  bitterness  of  death. 

So  Dion,  on  the  "  Ariosto,"  voyaged  towards  South  Africa, 
companioned  by  new  and  definite  knowledge  —  new  at  any 
rate  in  the  light  and  on  the  surface,  definite  because  in  the  very 
big  moments  of  life  truth  becomes  as  definite  as  the  bayonet 
piercing  to  the  man  who  is  pierced. 

His  comrades  were  a  mixed  lot,  mostly  quite  young.  The 
average  age  was  about  twenty-five.  Among  them  were  bar- 
risters, law  students,  dentists,  bank  clerks,  clerks,  men  of  the 
Civil  Service,  architects,  auctioneers,  engineers,  schoolmasters, 
builders,  plumbers,  jewelers,  tailors,  Stock  Exchange  men,  etc., 
etc.  There  were  representatives  of  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  trades,  and  adherents  to  nine  religions,  among  the  men 
of  the  C.I.V.  Their  free  patriotism  welded  them  together,  the 
thing  they  had  all  spontaneously  done  abolished  differences 
between  Baptists  and  Jews,  Methodists  and  Unitarians,  Cath- 
olics and  Protestants.  The  perfumery  manager  and  the  marine 
engineer  comprehended  each  the  other's  language;  the  dentist 
and  the  insurance  broker  "  hit  it  off  together  "  at  first  sight; 
printers  and  plumbers,  pawnbrokers  and  solicitors,  varnish 
testers  and  hop  factors  —  they  were  all  friendly  and  all  cheerful 
together.  Each  one  of  them  had  done  a  thing  which  all  the 
rest  secretly  admired.  Respect  is  a  good  cement,  and  can  stand 
a  lot  of  testing.  In  his  comrades  Dion  was  not  disappointed. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  261 

Among  them  were  a  few  acquaintances,  men  whom  he  had 
met  in  the  City,  but  there  was  only  one  man  whom  he  could 
count  as  a  friend,  a  barrister  named  Worthington,  a  bachelor, 
who  belonged  to  the  Greville  Club,  and  who  was  an  intimate 
of  Guy  Daventry's.  Worthington  knew  Daventry  much  better 
than  he  knew  Dion,  but  both  Dion  and  he  were  glad  to  be 
together  and  to  exchange  impressions  in  the  new  life  which 
they  had  entered  so  abruptly,  moved  by  a  common  impulse. 
Worthington  was  a  dark,  sallow,  narrow-faced  man,  wiry,  with 
an  eager  intellect,  fearless  and  energetic,  one  of  the  most  cheer- 
ful men  of  the  battalion.  His  company  braced  Dion. 

The  second  day  at  sea  was  disagreeable;  the  ship  rolled 
considerably,  and  many  officers  and  men  were  sea-sick.  Dion 
was  well,  but  Worthington  was  prostrated,  and  did  not  show 
on  deck.  Towards  evening  Dion  went  down  to  have  a  look  at 
him,  and  found  him  in  his  bunk,  lead-colored,  with  pinched 
features,  but  still  cheerful  and  able  to  laugh  at  his  own  misery. 
They  had  a  small  "  jaw  "  together  about  people  and  things  at 
home,  and  in  the  course  of  it  Worthington  mentioned  Mrs. 
Clarke,  whom  he  had  several  times  met  at  De  Lome  Gar- 
dens. 

"  You  know  she's  back  again  in  London?  "  he  said.  "  The 
winter's  almost  impossible  at  Constantinople  because  of  the 
winds  from  the  Black  Sea." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  she  was  in  London,  but  I  haven't  seen  her 
this  winter." 

"  I  half  thought  —  only  half  —  she'd  send  me  a  wire  to  wish 
me  good  luck  when  we  embarked,"  said  Worthington,  shifting 
uneasily  in  his  bunk,  and  twisting  his  white  lips.  "  But  she 
didn't.  She's  a  fascinating  woman.  I  should  have  liked  to 
have  had  a  wire  from  her." 

"  By  Jove !  "  exclaimed  Dion. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I've  just  remembered  I  got  some  telegrams  when  we  were 
going  off.  I  read  one,  from  my  wife,  and  stuffed  the  others 
away.  There  was  such  a  lot  to  do  and  think  of.  I  believe 
they're  here." 

He  thrust  a  hand  into  one  of  his  pockets  and  brought  out 
four  telegrams,  one,  Rosamund's,  open,  the  rest  unopened. 
Worthington  lay  staring  at  him  and  them,  glad  perhaps  to  be 
turned  for  a  moment  from  self-contemplation  by  any  incident, 
however  trifling. 

"  I'll  bet  I  know  whom  they're  from,"  said  Dion.     "  One's 


262  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

from  old  Guy,  one's  from  Bruce  Evelin,  and  one's  from '" 

He  paused,  fingering  the  telegrams. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Worthington,  still  screwing  his  lips  about. 

"  Perhaps  from  Beattie,  my  sister-in-law,  unless  she  and 
Guy  have  clubbed  together.  Well,  let's  see." 

He  tore  open  the  first  telegram. 

"  May  you  have  good  luck  and  come  back  safe  and  soon. — 
BEATTIE  —  GUY." 

He  opened  the  second.     It  was  from  Bruce  Evelin. 
"  May  you  be  a  happy  warrior. —  BRUCE  EVELIN." 

Dion  read  it  more  than  once,  and  his  lip  quivered  for  a 
second.  He  shot  a  glance  at  Worthington,  and  said,  rather 
bruskly : 

"  Beatrice  and  Guy  Daventry  and  Bruce  Evelin !  " 

Worthington  gave  a  little  faint  nod  in  the  direction  of  the 
telegram  that  was  still  unopened. 

"  Your  mater !  " 

"No;  she  wrote  to  me.  She  hates  telegrams,  says  they're 
public  property.  I  wonder  who  it  is." 

He  pushed  a  forefinger  under  the  envelope,  tore  it  and  pulled 
out  the  telegram. 

"  The  forgotten  do  not  always  forget.  May  Allah  have  you 
and  all  brave  men  in  His  hand. —  CYNTHIA  CLARKE." 

Dion  felt  Worthington's  observant  eyes  upon  him,  looked 
up  and  met  them  as  the  "  Ariosto  "  rolled  and  creaked  in  the 
heavy  gray  wash  of  the  sea. 

"  Funny !  "  he  jerked  out 

Worthington  lifted  inquiring  eyebrows  but  evidently  hesi- 
tated to  speak  just  then. 

"  It's  from  Mrs.  Clarke." 

"Beastly  of  her!"  tipped  out  Worthington.  "What  — she 
say?" 

"  Just  wishes  me  well." 

And  Dion  stuck  the  telegram  back  into  the  flimsy  envelope. 

When  he  looked  at  it  again  that  night  he  thought  the  woman 
from  Stamboul  was  a  very  forgiving  woman.  Almost  he  wished 
that  she  were  less  forgiving.  She  made  him  now,  she  had 
made  him  in  days  gone  by,  feel  as  if  he  had  behaved  to  her 
r.Imost  badly,  like  a  bit  of  a  brute.  Of  course  that  wasn't 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  263 

true.  If  he  hadn't  been  married  no  doubt  they  might  have  been 
good  friends.  As  things  were,  friendship  between  them  was 
impossible.  He  did  not  long  for  friendship  with  Mrs.  Clarke. 
His  life  was  full.  There  was  no  room  in  it  for  her.  But  he 
slightly  regretted  that  he  had  met  her,  and  he  regretted  more 
that  she  had  wished  to  know  Rosamund  and  him  better  than 
Rosamund  had  wished.  He  kept  her  telegram,  with  the  rest 
of  the  telegrams  he  had  received  on  his  departure;  now  and 
then  he  looked  at  it,  and  wondered  whether  its  wording  was 
not  the  least  bit  indelicate.  It  would  surely  have  been  wiser 
if  Mrs.  Clarke  had  omitted  the  opening  six  words.  They  con- 
veyed a  reproach;  they  conveyed,  too,  a  curious  suggestion  of 
will  power,  of  quiet  persistence.  When  he  read  them  Dion 
seemed  to  feel  the  touch  —  or  the  grip  —  of  Stamboul,  listless 
apparently,  yet  not  easily  to  be  evaded  or  got  rid  of. 

That  telegram  caused  him  to  wonder  whether  he  had  made 
a  really  strong  impression  upon  Mrs.  Clarke,  such  as  he  had  not 
suspected  till  now,  whether  she  had  not,  perhaps,  liked  him  a 
good  deal  more  than  she  liked  most  people.  "  May  Allah  have 
you  and  all  brave  men  in  His  hand."  Worthington  would  have 
been  glad  to  have  had  that  message.  Dion  had  discovered 
that  Worthington  was  half  in  love  with  Mrs.  Clarke.  He 
chaffed  Dion  about  Mrs.  Clarke's  telegram  with  a  rather  per- 
sistent gaiety  which  did  not  hide  a  faint,  semi-humorous 
jealousy.  One  day  he  even  said,  "  To  him  that  hath  shall  be 
given.  It's  so  like  a  woman  to  send  her  word  of  encourage- 
ment to  the  man  who's  got  a  wife  to  encourage  him,  and  to 
leave  the  poor  beggar  who's  got  no  one  out  in  the  cold.  It's 
a  cruel  world,  and  three-quarters  of  the  cruelty  in  it  is  the  pro- 
duction of  women."  He  spoke  with  a  smile,  and  the  argument 
which  followed  was  not  serious.  They  laughed  and  bantered 
each  other,  but  Dion  understood  that  Worthington  really 
envied  him  because  Mrs.  Clarke  had  thought  of  him  at  the 
moment  of  departure.  Perhaps  he  had  been  rather  stupid  in 
letting  Worthington  know  about  her  telegram.  But  Worthing- 
ton had  been  watching  him ;  he  had  had  a  feeling  that  Worthing- 
ton had  guessed  whom  the  telegram  was  from.  The  matter 
was  of  no  importance.  If  Mrs.  Clarke  had  cared  for  him,  or 
if  he  had  cared  for  her,  he  would  have  kept  her  message  secret; 
as  they  were  merely  acquaintances  who  no  longer  met  each 
other,  her  good  wishes  from  a  distance  meant  very  little,  merely 
a  kindly  thought,  for  which  he  was  grateful  and  about  which 
no  mystery  need  be  made. 


264  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Of  course  he  must  write  a  letter  of  thanks  to  Mrs.  Clarke. 

One  day,  after  he  had  written  to  Rosamund,  to  Robin,  to 
his  mother,  to  Beattie  and  to  Bruce  Evelin,  Mrs.  Clarke's  turn 
came.  His  letter  tocher  was  short  and  cheery,  but  he  was  slow 
in  writing  it.  There  was  a  noise  of  men,  a  turmoil  of  activity 
all  about  him.  In  the  midst  of  it  he  heard  a  husky,  very  in- 
dividual voice,  he  saw  a  pair  of  wide-open  distressed  eyes 
looking  directly  at  him.  And  an  odd  conviction  came  to  him 
that  life  would  bring  Mrs.  Clarke  and  him  together  again. 
Then  he  would  come  back  from  South  Africa?  He  had  no 
premonition  about  that.  What  he  felt  as  he  wrote  his  letter 
was  simply  that  somehow,  somewhere,  Mrs.  Clarke  and  he 
would  get  to  know  each  other  better  than  they  knew  each  other 
now.  Kismet!  In  the  vast  Turkish  cemeteries  there  were 
moldering  bodies  innumerable.  Why  did  he  think  of  them 
whenever  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Clarke?  No  doubt  because  she 
lived  in  Constantinople,  because  much  of  her  life  was  passed 
in  the  shadow  of  the  towering  cypresses.  He  had  thought  of 
her  as  a  cypress.  Did  she  keep  watch  over  bodies  of  the  dead  ? 

A  bugle  rang  out.  He  put  his  letter  into  the  envelope  and 
hastily  scribbled  the  address.  Mrs.  Clarke  was  again  at 
Claridge's. 


Every  man  who  loves  very  deeply  wishes  to  conquer  the 
woman  he  loves,  to  conquer  the  heart  of  her  and  to  have  it  as 
his  possession.  Dion  had  left  England  knowing  that  he  had 
won  Rosamund  but  had  never  conquered  her.  This  South 
African  campaign  had  come  upon  him  like  a  great  blow  de- 
livered with  intention;  a  blow  which  does  not  stun  a  man  but 
which  wakes  the  whole  man  up.  If  this  war  had  not  broken 
out  his  life  would  have  gone  on  as  before,  harmoniously,  com- 
fortably, with  the  daily  work,  and  the  daily  exercise,  and  the 
daily  intercourse  with  wife  and  child  and  friends.  And  would 
he  ever  have  absolutely  known  what  he  knew  now,  what  — 
he  was  certain  of  it !  —  his  mother  knew,  what  perhaps  Beattie 
and  even  Bruce  Evelin  knew? 

He  had  surely  failed  in  a  great  enterprise,  but  he  was  re- 
solved to  succeed  if  long  enough  life  were  given  to  him.  He 
was  now  awake  and  walked  in  full  knowledge.  Surely,  Rosa- 
mund being  what  she  was,  the  issue  lay  with  himself.  If  God 
had  stood  between  them  that  must  be  because  he,  Dion, 
was  not  yet  worthy  of  the  full  happiness  which  was  his  greatest 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  265 

earthly  desire.  Dion  was  certain  that  God  did  not  stand 
between  Rosamund  and  Robin. 

He  had  dreams  of  returning  to  England  a  different,  or  per- 
haps a  developed,  man.  The  perfect  Iqpers  ought  to  stand 
together  on  the  same  level.  Rosamund  and  he  had  never  done 
that  yet.  He  resolved  to  gain  in  South  Africa,  to  get  a  grip 
on  his  best  possibilities,  to  go  back  to  England,  if  he  ever  went 
back,  a  bigger  soul,  freer,  more  competent,  more  generous,  more 
fearless.  He  could  never  be  a  mystic.  He  did  not  want  to 
be  that.  But  surely  he  could  learn  in  this  interval  of  separa- 
tion which,  like  a  river,  divided  his  life  from  Rosamund's,  to 
match  her  mysticism  with  something  which  would  be  able  to  call 
it  out  of  its  mysterious  understanding.  Instead  of  retreating 
to  God  alone  she  might  then,  perhaps,  take  him  with  her;  in- 
stead of  praying  over  him  she  might  pray  with  him.  If,  after 
he  returned  from  South  Africa,  Rosamund  were  ever  again  to 
be  deliberately  good  with  him,  making  such  an  effort  as  she 
had  made  on  that  horrible  evening  in  Little  Market  Street  when 
he  had  told  her  he  was  going  on  active  service,  he  felt  that  he 
simply  couldn't  bear  it. 

He  put  firmly  aside  the  natural  longings  for  home  which 
often  assailed  him,  and  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  his 
new  duties.  Already  he  felt  happier,  for  he  was  "  out  "  to  draw 
from  the  present,  from  the  whole  of  it,  all  the  building  material 
it  contained,  and  was  resolute  to  use  all  that  material  in  the 
construction  of  a  palace,  a  future  based  on  marble,  strong, 
simple,  noble,  a  Parthenon  of  a  future.  Only  the  weak  man 
looks  to  omens,  is  governed  in  his  mind,  and  so  in  his  actions, 
by  them.  That  which  he  had  not  known  how  to  win  in  an 
easy  life  he  must  learn  to  win  in  a  life  that  was  hard.  This 
war  he  would  take  as  a  gift  to  him,  something  to  be  used  finely. 
If  he  fell  in  it  still  he  would  have  had  his  gift,  the  chance  to 
realize  some  of  his  latent  and  best  possibilities.  He  swept  out 
of  his  mind  an  old  thought,  the  creeping  surmise  that  perhaps 
Rosamund  had  given  him  all  she  had  to  give  in  lover's  love, 
that  she  knew  how  to  love  as  child  and  as  mother,  but  that 
she  was  incapable  of  being  a  great  lover  in  man's  sense  of 
the  term  when  he  applies  it  to  woman. 

Madeira  was  passed  on  January  the  twenty-fifth,  and  the 
men,  staring  across  the  sea,  saw  its  lofty  hills  rising  dreamily 
out  of  the  haze,  watchers  of  those  who  would  not  stop,  who 
had  no  time  for  any  eating  of  the  lotus.  Heat  came  upon 
the  ship,  and  there  were  some  who  pretended  that  they  heard 


266  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

sounds,  and  smelled  perfumes  wafted,  like  messages,  from  the 
hidden  shores  on  which  probably  they  would  never  land.  Every 
one  was  kept  busy,  after  a  sail  bath,  with  drilling,  musketry 
instruction,  physical  drill,  cleaning  of  accouterments,  a  dozen 
things  which  made  the  hours  go  quickly  in  a  buzz  of  human 
activities.  Some  of  the  men,  Dion  among  them,  were  trying  to 
learn  Dutch  under  an  instructor  who  knew  the  mysteries.  A 
call  came  for  volunteers  for  inoculation,  and  both  Dion  and 
Worthington  answered  it,  with  between  forty  and  fifty  other 
men.  The  prick  of  the  needle  was  like  the  touch  of  a  spark; 
soon  after  came  a  mystery  of  general  wretchedness,  followed  by 
pains  in  the  loins,  a  rise  of  temperature  and  extreme,  in  Dion's 
case  even  intense,  weakness.  He  lay  in  his  bunk  trying  to 
play  the  detective  on  himself,  to  stand  outside  of  his  body, 
saying  to  himself,  "  This  is  I,  and  I  am  quite  unaffected  by 
my  bodily  condition."  For  what  seemed  to  him  a  long  time 
he  was  fairly  successful  in  his  effort;  then  the  body  began  to 
show  definitely  the  power  of  its  weakness  upon  the  Ego,  to 
assert  itself  by  feebleness.  His  will  became  like  an  invalid  who 
is  fretful  upon  the  pillows.  Soon  his  strong  resolutions,  cher- 
ished and  never  to  be  parted  from  till  out  of  them  the  deeds 
had  blossomed,  lost  blood  and  fell  upon  the  evil  day  of  anemia. 
He  had  a  sensation  of  going  out.  When  the  midnight  came 
he  could  not  sleep,  and  with  it  came  a  thought  feeble  but  per- 
sistent: "  If  she  loves  me  it's  because  I've  given  her  Robin." 
And  in  the  creaking  darkness,  encompassed  by  the  restlessness 
of  the  sea,  again  and  again  he  repeated  to  himself  the  words 
— "  it's  because  I've  given  her  Robin."  That  was  the  plain 
truth.  If  he  was  loved,  he  was  loved  because  of  something  he 
had  done,  not  because  of  something  that  he  was.  Towards 
dawn  he  felt  so  weak  that  his  hold  on  life  seemed  relaxing, 
and  at  last  he  almost  wished  to  let  it  go.  He  understood  why 
dying  people  do  not  usually  fear  death. 

Three  days  later  he  was  quite  well  and  at  work,  but  the 
memory  of  his  illness  stayed  with  him  all  through  the  South 
African  campaign.  Often  at  night  he  returned  to  that  night 
on  shipboard,  and  said  to  himself,  "  The  doctor's  needle  helped 
me  to  think  clearly." 

The  voyage  slipped  away  with  the  unnoticed  swiftness  that 
is  the  child  of  monotony.  The  Southern  Cross  shone  above 
the  ship.  When  the  great  heat  set  in  the  men  were  allowed  to 
sleep  on  deck,  and  Dion  lay  all  night  long  under  the  wheeling 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  267 

stars,  and  often  thought  of  the  stars  above  Drouva,  and  heard 
Rosamund's  voice  saying,  "  I  can  see  the  Pleiades." 

The  ship  crossed  the  line.  Early  in  February  the  moon 
began  to  show  a  benign  face  to  the  crowd  of  men.  One  night 
there  was  a  concert  which  was  followed  by  boxing.  Dion 
boxed  and  won  his  bout  easily  on  points. 

This  little  success  had  upon  him  a  bracing  effect,  and  gave 
him  a  certain  prestige  among  his  comrades.  He  did  well  also 
at  revolver  and  musketry  practice  —  better  than  many  men 
who,  though  good  enough  shots  at  Bisley,  found  sectional  prac- 
tice with  the  service  rifle  a  difficult  job,  were  adepts  at  missing 
a  mark  with  the  revolver,  and  knew  nothing  of  fire  discipline. 
Because  he  had  set  an  aim  before  him  on  which  he  knew  that 
his  future  happiness  depended,  he  was  able  to  put  his  whole 
heart  into  everything  he  did.  In  the  simplest  duty  he  saw  a 
means  to  an  end  which  he  desired  intensely.  Everything  that 
lay  to  hand  in  the  life  of  the  soldier  was  building  material 
which  he  must  use  to  the  best  advantage.  He  knew  fully,  for 
the  first  time,  the  joy  of  work. 

On  a  day  in  the  middle  of  February  the  "  Ariosto  "  passed 
the  mail-boat  from  the  Cape  bound  for  England,  sighted  Table 
Mountain,  and  came  to  anchor  between  Robben  Island  and  the 
docks.  On  the  following  morning  the  men  of  the  C.I.V.  felt  the 
earth  with  eager  feet  as  they  marched  to  Green  Point  Camp. 


CHAPTER  III 

ROBIN,"  said  Rosamund,  "  would  you  like  to  go  and 
live  in  the  country?  " 
Robin  looked  very  serious  and,  after  a  moment  of 
silent  consideration,  remarked: 
"  Where  there's  no  houses  ?  " 
"  Some  houses,  but  not  nearly  so  many  as  here." 
Another  point  presented  itself  to  Robin. 
"Would  Mr.  Thush  be  there?" 
"Well  no,  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't." 
Robin  began  to  look  decidedly  adverse  to  the  proposition. 
"  You  see  Mr.  Thrush  has  always  lived  in  London,"  began 
Rosamund  explanatorily. 

"  But  so've  we,"  interrupted  Robin. 


268  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  But  we  aren't  as  old  as  Mr.  Thrush." 

"  Is  he  very  old,  mummie  ?     How  old  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  he's  a  very  great  deal  older  than  you 
are." 

"  I  s'poses,"  observed  Robin  meditatively,  slightly  wrinkling 
his  little  nose  where  the  freckles  were.  "  Well,  mummie?  " 

"  Old  people  don't  generally  like  to  move  about  much,  but 
I  think  it  would  be  very  good  for  you  and  me  to  go  into  the 
country  while  father's  away." 

And  taking  Robin  on  her  knees,  and  putting  her  arms  round 
Jiim,  Rosamund  began  to  tell  him  about  the  country,  developing 
enthusiasm  as  she  talked,  bending  over  the  little  fair  head  that 
was  so  dear  to  her  —  the  little  fair  head  which  contained 
Robin's  dear  little  thoughts,  funny  and  very  touching,  but 
£very  one  of  them  dear. 

She  described  to  Robin  the  Spring  as  it  is  in  the  English 
country,  frail  and  fragrant,  washed  by  showers  that  come  and 
go  with  a  waywardness  that  seems  very  conscious,  warmed  by 
sunbeams  not  fully  grown  up  and  therefore  not  able  to  do  the 
work  of  the  sunbeams  of  summer.  She  told  him  of  the  rain- 
bow that  is  set  in  the  clouds  like  a  promise  made  from  a  very 
great  distance,  and  of  the  pale  and  innocent  flowers  of  Spring: 
primroses,  periwinkles,  violets,  cowslips,  flowers  of  dells  in  the 
budding  woods,  and  of  clearings  round  which  the  trees  stand 
on  guard  about  the  safe  little  daisies  and  wild  hyacinths  and 
wild  crocuses;  flowers  of  the  sloping  meadows  that  go  down 
to  the  streams  of  Spring.  And  all  along  the  streams  the  twigs 
are  budding;  the  yellow  "lambs'  tails"  swing  in  the  breeze, 
as  if  answering  to  the  white  lambs'  tails  that  are  wagging  in 
the  fields.  The  thrush  sings  in  the  copse,  and  in  his  piercing 
sweet  note  is  the  sound  of  Spring. 

Bending  over  Robin,  Rosamund  imitated  the  note  of  the 
thrush,  and  Robin  stared  up  at  her  with  ardent  eyes. 

"  Does  Mr.  Thush  ever  do  that?  " 

"  I've  never  heard  him  do  it." 

And  she  went  on  talking  about  the  Spring. 

How  she  loved  that  hour  talking  of  Spring  in  the  country 
with  her  human  Spring  in  her  arms.  What  was  the  war  to 
her  just  then?  Robin  abolished  war.  While  she  had  him 
there  was  always  the  rainbow,  the  perfect  rainbow,  rising  from 
the  world  to  the  heavens  and  falling  from  the  heavens  to  the 
world.  The  showers  were  fleeting  Spring  showers,  and  the 
clouds  were  fleecy  and  showed  the  blue. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  269 

"  Robin,  Robin,  Robin !  "  she  breathed  over  her  child,  when 
they  had  lived  in  the  Spring  together,  the  pure  and  exquisite 
Spring. 

And  Robin,  all  glowing  with  the  ardor  he  had  caught  from 
her,  declared  for  the  country. 

A  few  days  later  Rosamund  wrote  to  Canon  Wilton,  who 
happened  to  be  in  residence  at  Welsley  out  of  his  usual  time, 
and  asked  him  if  he  knew  of  any  pretty  small  house,  with  a 
garden,  in  the  neighborhood,  where  she  and  Robin  could  settle 
down  till  Dion  came  back  from  the  war.  In  answer  she  got  a 
letter  from  the  Canon  inviting  her  to  spend  a  night  or  two  at 
his  house  in  the  Precincts.  In  a  P.S.  he  wrote: 

"  If  you  can  come  next  week  I  think  I  can  arrange  with  Mr, 
Soames,  our  precentor,  for  Wesley's  '  Wilderness  '  to  be  sung 
at  one  of  the  afternoon  services;  but  let  me  know  by  return 
what  days  you  will  be  here." 

Rosamund  replied  by  telegraph.  Aunt  Beatrice  was  installed 
in  Little  Market  Street  for  a  couple  of  nights  as  Robin's  pro- 
tector, and  Rosamund  went  down  to  Welsley,  and  spent  two 
days  with  the  Canon. 

She  had  never  been  alone  with  him  before,  except  now  and 
then  for  a  few  minutes,  but  he  was  such  a  sincere  and  plain- 
spoken  man  that  she  had  always  felt  she  genuinely  knew  him. 
To  every  one  with  whom  he  spoke  he  gave  himself  as  he  was. 
This  unusual  sincerity  in  Rosamund's  eyes  was  a  great  attrac- 
tion. She  often  said  that  she  could  never  feel  at  home  with 
pretense  even  if  the  intention  behind  it  was  kindly.  Perhaps, 
however,  she  did  not  always  detect  it,  although  she  possessed 
the  great  gift  of  feminine  intuition. 

She  arrived  by  the  express,  which  reached  Welsley  Station 
in  the  evening,  and  found  Canon  Wilton  at  the  station  to  meet 
her.  His  greeting  was: 

"  The  '  Wilderness,'  Wesley,  at  the  afternoon  service  to- 
morrow." 

"  That's  good  of  you !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  the  warm  and 
radiant  cordiality  that  won  her  so  many  friends.  "  I  shall 
revel  in  my  little  visit  here.  It's  an  unexpected  treat." 

The  Canon  seemed  for  a  moment  almost  surprised  by  her 
buoyant  anticipation,  and  a  look  that  was  sad  flitted  across 
his  face;  but  she  did  not  notice  it. 

As  they  drove  in  a  fly  to  his  house  in  the  Precincts  she  looked 
out  at  the  busy  provincial  life  in  the  narrow  streets  of  the  old 
country  town,  and  enjoyed  the  intimate  concentration  of  it  all. 


270  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  should  like  to  poke  about  here,"  she  said.  "  I  should 
feel  at  home  as  I  never  do  in  London.  I  believe  I'm  thoroughly 
provincial  at  heart." 

In  the  highest  tower  of  the  Cathedral,  which  stood  in  the 
heart  of  the  town,  the  melodious  chimes  lifted  up  their  crystal- 
line voices,  and  "  Great  John  "  boomed  out  the  hour  in  a  voice 
of  large  authority. 

"  Seven  o'clock,"  said  the  Canon.  "  Dinner  is  at  eight. 
You'll  be  all  alone  with  me  this  evening." 

"  To-morrow  too,  I  hope,"  Rosamund  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  to-morrow  we  shall  be  the  awkward  number  —  three. 
Mr.  Robertson,  from  Liverpool,  is  coming  to  stay  with  me  for 
a  few  days.  He  preaches  here  next  Sunday  evening." 

Rosamund's  thought  was  carried  back  to  a  foggy  night  in 
London,  when  she  had  heard  a  sermon  on  egoism,  and  a  quota- 
tion she  had  never  forgotten:  ''Ego  dormio  et  cor  meum 
vigilat." 

"Can  you  manage  with  two  clergymen?"  said  Canon 
Wilton. 

"  I'll  try.  I  don't  think  they'll  frighten  me,  and  I've  been 
wishing  to  meet  Mr.  Robertson  for  a  long  time." 

"  He's  a  good  man,"  said  Canon  Wilton  very  simply.  But 
die  statement  as  he  made  it  was  like  an  accolade. 

Rosamund  enjoyed  her  quiet  evening  with  the  Canon  in 
the  house  with  the  high  green  gate,  the  elm  trees  and  the  gray 
gables.  As  they  talked,  at  first  in  the  oak-paneled  dining- 
room,  later  in  the  Canon's  library  by  a  big  wood  fire,  she  was 
always  pleasantly  conscious  of  being  enclosed,  of  being  closely 
sheltered  in  the  arms  of  the  Precincts,  which  held  also  the 
mighty  Cathedral  with  its  cloisters,  its  subterranean  passages, 
its  ancient  tombs,  its  mysterious  courts,  its  staircases,  its  towers 
hidden  in  the  night.  The  ecclesiastical  flavor  which  she  tasted 
was  pleasant  to  her  palate.  She  loved  the  nearness  of  those 
stones  which  had  been  pressed  by  the  knees  of  pilgrims,  of 
those  walls  between  which  so  many  prayers  had  been  uttered, 
so  many  praises  had  been  sung.  A  cosiness  of  religion  en- 
wrapped her.  She  had  a  delicious  feeling  of  safety.  They 
could  hear  the  chimes  where  they  sat  encompassed  by  a  silence 
which  was  not  like  ordinary  silences,  but  which  to  Rosamund 
seemed  impregnated  with  the  peace  of  long  meditations  and  of 
communings  with  the  unseen. 

"  This  rests  me,"  she  said  to  her  host.  "  Don't  you  love 
your  time  here?  " 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  271 

"  I'm  fond  of  Welsley,  but  I  don't  think  I  should  like  to 
pass  all  my  year  in  it.  I  don't  believe  in  sinking  down  into 
religion,  or  into  practises  connected  with  it,  as  a  soft  old  man 
sinks  down  into  a  feather  bed.  And  that's  what  some  people 
do." 

"Do  they?"  said  Rosamund  abstractedly. 

Just  then  a  large  and  murmurous  sound,  apparently  from 
very  far  off,  had  begun  to  steal  upon  her  ears,  level  and  deep, 
suggestive  almost  of  the  vast  slumber  of  a  world  and  of  the 
underthings  that  are  sleepless  but  keep  at  a  distance. 

"  Is  it  the  organ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  listening  voice. 

Canon  Wilton  nodded. 

"  Dickinson  practising." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  long  time  listening.  In  that  silence 
the  Canon  was  watching  Rosamund.  He  thought  how  beau- 
tiful she  was  and  how  good,  but  he  almost  disliked  the  joy 
which  he  discerned  in  her  expression,  in  her  complete  repose. 
He  rebuked  himself  for  this  approach  to  dislike,  but  his  rebuke 
was  not  efficacious.  In  this  enclosed  calm  of  the  precincts  of 
Welsley  where,  pacing  within  the  walls  by  the  edge  of  the 
velvety  lawns,  the  watchman  would  presently  cry  out  the  hour 
Canon  Wilton  was  conscious  of  a  life  at  a  distance,  the  life  of 
a  man  he  had  met  first  in  St.  James's  Square.  The  beautiful 
woman  in  the  chair  by  the  fire  had  surely  forgotten  that  man. 

Presently  the  distant  sound  of  the  organ  ceased. 

"  I  love  Welsley,"  said  Rosamund,  on  a  little  sigh.  "  I  just 
love  it.  I  should  like  to  live  in  the  Precincts." 

That  brought  them  to  a  discussion  of  plans  in  which  Dion 
was  talked  of  with  warm  affection  and  admiration  by  Rosa- 
mund; and  all  the  time  she  was  talking,  Canon  Wilton  saw 
the  beautiful  woman  in  the  chair  listening  to  the  distant  organ. 
He  knew  of  a  house  that  was  to  be  let  in  the  Precincts,  but 
that  night  he  did  not  mention  it.  Something  prevented  him 
from  doing  so  —  something  against  which  he  struggled,  but 
which  he  failed  to  overcome. 

When  they  separated  it  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock.  As  Rosa- 
mund took  her  silver  candlestick  from  the  Canon  at  the  foot 
of  the  shallow  oak  staircase  she  said: 

"  I've  had  such  a  happy  evening!  " 

It  was  a  very  sweet  compliment  very  sweetly  paid.  No  man 
could  have  been  quite  indifferent  to  it.  Canon  Wilton  was 
not.  As  he  looked  at  Rosamund  a  voice  within  him  said: 

"That's  a  very  dear  woman." 


272  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

It  spoke  undeniable  truth.     Yet  another  voice  whispered: 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  change  her!  " 

But  that  was  impossible.  The  Canon  knew  that,  for  he 
was  very  sincere  with  himself;  and  he  realized  that  the  change 
he  wanted  to  see  could  only  come  from  within,  could  never  be 
imposed  by  him  from  without  upon  the  mysterious  dweller  in 
the  Temple  of  Rosamund. 

That  night  Rosamund  undressed  very  slowly  and  "  pottered 
about "  in  her  room,  doing  dreamily  unnecessary  things.  She 
heard  the  chimes,  and  she  heard  the  watchman  calling  the 
midnight  hour  near  her  window  as  "  Great  John  "  lifted  up  his 
voice.  In  the  drawers  where  her  clothes  were  laid  the  Canon's 
housekeeper  had  put  lavender.  She  smelt  it  as  she  listened  to 
the  watchman's  voice,  shutting  her  eyes.  Presently  she  drew 
aside  curtain  and  blind  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  She 
saw  the  outline  of  part  of  the  great  Cathedral  with  the  principal 
tower,  the  home  of  "  Great  John  ";  she  felt  the  embracing  arms 
of  the  Precincts;  and  when  she  knelt  down  to  say  her  prayers 
she  thought: 

"  Here  is  a  place  where  I  can  really  pray." 

Nuns  surely  are  helped  by  their  convents  and  monks  by 
the  peace  of  their  whitewashed  cells. 

"  It  is  only  in  sweet  places  of  retirement  that  one  can  pray 
as  one  ought  to  pray,"  thought  Rosamund  that  night  as  she 
lay  in  bed. 

She  forgot  that  the  greatest  prayer  ever  offered  up  was  uttered 
on  a  cross  in  the  midst  of  a  shrieking  crowd. 

On  the  following  day  she  went  to  the  morning  service  in  the 
Cathedral,  and  afterwards  heard  something  which  filled  her 
with  joyful  anticipation.  Canon  Wilton  told  her  there  was  a 
house  to  let  in  the  Precincts. 

"  I'll  take  it,"  said  Rosamund  at  once.  "  Esme  Darlington 
has  found  me  a  tenant  for  No.  5,  an  old  friend  of  his,  or  rather 
two  old  friends,  Sir  John  and  Lady  Tenby.  Where  is  it?  " 

He  took  her  to  see  it. 

The  house  in  question  had  been  occupied  by  the  widow  of 
a  Dean,  who  had  recently  been  driven  by  her  health  to  "  relapse 
upon  Bournemouth."  It  was  a  small  old  house  with  two 
very  large  rooms  —  one  the  drawing-room,  the  other  a  bed- 
room. 

The  house  stood  at  right  angles  to  the  east  end  of  the  Cathe- 
dral, from  which  it  was  only  divided  by  a  strip  of  turf  broken 
up  by  fragments  of  old  gray  ruins,  and  edged  by  an  iron  rail- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  273 

ing,  and  by  a  paved  passage-way,  which  led  through  the  Dark 
Entry  from  the  "  Green  Court,"  where  the  Deanery  and  Minor 
Canons'  houses  were  situated,  to  the  pleasaunce  immediately 
around  the  Cathedral.  To  the  green  lawns  of  this  wide 
pleasaunce  the  houses  of  the  residentiary  Canons  gave  access. 
One  projecting  latticed  window  of  the  drawing-room  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  house,  another  of  the  big  bedroom  above  it,  and 
the  windows  of  the  kitchen  and  the  servants'  quarters  looked 
on  to  the  passage-way  and  the  Cathedral;  all  the  other  windows 
looked  into  an  old  garden  surrounded  by  a  very  high  brick 
wall,  a  garden  of  green  turf  like  moss,  of  elm  trees,  and,  in 
summer,  of  gay  herbaceous  borders,  a  garden  to  which  the  voices 
of  the  chimes  dropped  down,  and  to  which  the  Cathedral  organ 
sent  its  message,  as  if  to  a  place  that  knew  how  to  keep  safely 
all  things  that  were  precious.  Even  the  pure  and  chill  voices 
of  the  boy  choristers  found  a  way  to  this  hidden  garden,  in 
which  there  were  straight  and  narrow  paths,  where  nuns  might 
have  loved  to  walk  unseen  of  the  eyes  of  men. 

The  Dean's  widow  had  left  behind  all  her  furniture,  and 
was  now  adorning  a  Bournemouth  hotel,  in  which  her  sprightly 
invalidism  and  close  knowledge  of  the  investments  of  the 
Ecclesiastical  Commissioners,  and  of  the  habits  and  customs 
of  the  lesser  clergy,  were  greatly  appreciated.  Some  of  the 
furniture  did  not  wholly  commend  itself  to  Rosamund.  There 
were  certain  settees  and  back-to-backs,  certain  whatnots  and 
occasional  tables,  which  seemed  to  stamp  the  character  of  the 
Dean's  widow  as  meretricious.  But  these  could  easily  be 
"  managed."  Rosamund  was  enchanted  with  the  house,  and 
went  from  room  to  room  with  Canon  Wilton  radiantly  curious, 
and  almost  as  excited  as  a  joyous  schoolgirl. 

"  I  must  poke  my  nose  into  everything !  "  she  exclaimed. 

And  she  did  it,  and  made  the  Canon  poke  his  too. 

Presently,  opening  the  lattice  of  the  second  window  in  the 
big,  low-ceiled  drawing-room,  she  leaned  out  to  the  moist  and 
secluded  garden.  She  was  sitting  sideways  on  the  window- 
seat,  of  which  she  had  just  said,  "  I  won't  have  this  dreadful 
boudoir  color  on  my  cushions!  "  Canon  Wilton  was  standing 
behind  her,  and  presently  heard  her  sigh  gently,  and  almost 
voluptuously,  as  if  she  prolonged  the  sigh  and  did  not  want  to 
let  it  go. 

"  Yes?  "  he  said,  with  a  half-humorous  inflection  of  the 
voice. 

Rosamund  looked  round  gravely. 


274  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Did  you  say  something?  " 

"  Only  —  yes?  —  in  answer  to  your  sigh." 

"  Did  I  ?     Yes,  I  must  have.     I  was  thinki 


thinking 


She  hesitated,  while  he  stood  looking  at  her  with  his  strong, 
steady  gray-blue  eyes. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  a  life  I  shall  never  live." 

He  came  up  to  the  window-seat. 

"  Some  of  it  might  have  been  passed  in  just  such  a  garden 
as  this  within  sound  of  bells." 

With  a  change  of  voice  she  added: 

"How  Robin  will  love  it!  " 

"The  life  you  will  never  live?"  said  the  Canon,  smiling 
gravely. 

"  No,  the  garden." 

"  Then  you  haven't  a  doubt?  " 

"  Oh  no.  When  I  know  a  thing  there's  no  room  in  me  for 
hesitation.  I  shall  love  being  here  with  Robin  as  I  have  never 
loved  anything  yet." 

The  quarter  struck  in  the  Cathedral  tower. 

"  Very  different  from  South  Africa !  "  said  Canon  Wilton. 

Rosamund  knitted  her  brows  for  a  moment. 

"  I  wonder  whether  Dion  will  come  back  altered,"  she  said. 

"  D'you  wish  him  to?  " 

She  got  up  from  the  window-seat,  put  out  her  hand,  and 
softly  pulled  the  lattice  towards  her. 

"  Not  in  most  ways.  He's  so  dear  as  he  is.  It  would  all 
depend  on  the  alteration." 

She  latched  the  window  gently,  and  again  looked  at  the 
garden  through  it. 

"I  may  be  altered,  too,  by  living  here!"  she  said.  "All 
alone  with  Robin.  I  think  I  shall  be." 

Canon  Wilton  made  no  comment.     He  was  thinking: 

"  And  when  the  two,  altered,  come  together  again,  if  they 
ever  do,  what  then  ?  " 

He  had  noticed  that  Rosamund  never  seemed  to  think  of 
Dion's  death  in  South  Africa  as  a  possibility.  When  she  spoke 
of  him  she  assumed  his  return  as  a  matter  of  course.  Did  she 
never  think  of  death,  then?  Did  she,  under  the  spell  of  her 
radiant  and  splendidly  healthy  youth,  forget  all  the  tragic 
possibilities?  He  wondered,  but  he  did  not  ask. 

Mr.  Robertson  arrived  at  the  Canon's  house  just  in  time  for 
the  afternoon  service  — "  my  Wilderness  service,"  as  Rosamund 
called  it.  The  bells  were  ringing  as  he  drove  up  with  his 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  275 

modest  luggage,  and  Rosamund  had  already  gone  to  the 
Cathedral  and  was  seated  in  a  stall. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  half  an  hour's  quiet  meditation  in 
church  before  the  service  begins,"  she  had  remarked  to  Canon 
Wilton.  And  the  Canon  had  put  her  in  a  stall  close  to  where 
he  would  presently  be  sitting,  and  had  then  hurried  back  to 
meet  Father  Robertson. 

"  My  Welsley !  "  was  Rosamund's  thought  as  she  sat  in  her 
stall,  quite  alone,  looking  up  at  the  old  jeweled  glass  in  the 
narrow  Gothic  windows,  at  the  wonderful  somber  oak,  age- 
colored,  of  the  return  stalls  and  canopy  beneath  which  Canon 
Wilton,  as  Canon-in-Residence,  would  soon  be  sitting  at  right 
angles  to  her,  at  the  distant  altar  lifted  on  high  and  backed 
by  a  delicate  marble  screen,  beyond  which  stretched  a  further, 
tranquilly  obscure  vista  of  the  great  church.  The  sound  of 
the  bells  ringing  far  above  her  head  in  the  gray  central  tower 
was  heard  by  her,  but  only  just  heard,  as  we  hear  the  voices 
of  the  past  murmuring  of  old  memories  and  of  deeds  which 
are  almost  forgotten.  Distant  footsteps  echoed  among  the  great 
tombs  of  stone  and  of  marble,  which  commemorated  the  dead 
who  had  served  God  in  that  place  in  the  gray  years  gone  by. 
In  her  nostrils  there  seemed  to  be  a  perfume,  like  an  essence  of 
concentrated  prayers  sent  up  among  these  stone  traceries,  these 
pointed  arches,  these  delicate  columns,  by  generations  of  be- 
lievers. She  felt  wrapped  in  a  robe  never  woven  by  hands, 
in  a  robe  that  gave  warmth  to  her  spirit. 

A  few  people  began  stealing  quietly  in  through  the  narrow 
archway  in  the  great  screen  which  shut  out  the  raised  choir 
from  the  nave.  Only  one  bell  sounded  now  in  the  gray  tower. 
A  faint  noise,  like  an  oncoming  sigh,  above  Rosamund's  head 
heralded  the  organ's  awakening,  and  was  followed  by  the 
whisper  of  its  most  distant  voice,  a  voice  which  made  her  think 
—  she  knew  not  why  —  of  the  sea  whispering  about  a  coral 
reef  in  an  isle  of  the  Southern  Seas,  part  of  God's  world, 
mysteriously  linked  to  "my  Welsley."  She  shut  her  eyes, 
seeking  to  feel  more  strongly  the  sensation  of  unity.  When 
she  opened  them  she  saw,  sitting  close  to  her  in  the  return 
stalls,  Father  Robertson.  His  softly  glowing  eyes  were  looking 
at  her,  and  did  not  turn  away  immediately.  She  felt  that  he 
knew  she  was  his  fellow-guest,  and  was  conscious  of  a  delicious 
sensation  of  sympathy,  of  giving  and  taking,  of  cross  currents 
of  sympathy  between  the  Father  and  herself. 

"  I  love  this  hour —  I  love  all  this!  "  she  said  to  herself. 


276  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

If  only  little  Robin  were  submerged  in  the  stall  beside  her! 

The  feet  of  the  slow  procession  were  heard,  and  the  silver 
wand  of  the  chief  verger  shone  out  of  the  delicate  gloom. 

When  the  anthem  was  given  out  Rosamund  looked  across  at 
Canon  Wilton,  and  her  eyes  said  to  him,  "  Thank  you."  Then 
she  stood  up,  folded  her  hands  on  the  great  cushion  in  front 
of  her,  and  looked  at  the  gray  vistas  and  at  the  dim  sparkle  of 
the  ancient  glass  in  the  narrow  windows. 

"  The  wilderness  and  the  solitary  places  .  .  ." 

She  had  spoken  of  this  to  Dion  as  they  looked  at  Zante 
together,  before  little  Robin  had  come,  and  she  had  said  that 
if  she  had  committed  a  great  sin  she  would  like  to  take  her 
sin  into  the  Wilderness,  because  purification  might  be  found 
there.  And  she  had  meant  what  she  said,  had  spoken  out  of 
her  heart  sincerely.  But  now,  as  she  listened  to  this  anthem, 
she  saw  a  walled-in  garden,  with  green  turf  like  moss,  old  elm 
trees  and  straight  narrow  paths.  Perhaps  she  had  been  mis- 
taken when  she  had  spoken  of  the  sin  and  the  Wilderness,  per- 
haps she  would  find  purification  with  fewer  tears  and  less 
agony  in  the  cloister,  within  sound  of  the  bells  which  called 
men  to  the  service  of  God,  and  of  the  human  voices  which  sang 
His  praises.  Saints  had  fled  into  the  Wilderness  to  seek  God 
there,  but  was  He  not  in  the  Garden  between  the  sheltering 
walls,  ready  there,  as  in  the  farthest  desert,  to  receive  the  sub- 
mission of  the  soul,  to  listen  to  the  cry,  "  I  have  sinned  "? 

As  in  Elis  the  spell  of  the  green  wild  had  been  upon  Rosa- 
mund, so  now  the  spell  of  these  old  Precincts  was  upon  her,  and 
spoke  to  her  innermost  being,  and  as  in  Elis  Dion  had  been 
woven  into  her  dream  of  the  Wilderness,  so  now  in  Welsley 
Robin  was  woven  into  it.  But  Dion  had  seemed  a  forerunner, 
and  little  Robin  seemed  That  for  which  she  had  long  waited, 
the  fulfilment  of  the  root  desire  of  her  whole  being  as  applied 
to  human  life. 

When  the  service  was  over  and  the  procession  had  gone  out 
Rosamund  sat  very  still  listening  to  the  organ.  She  believed 
that  Canon  Wilton  had  given  the  organist  a  hint  that  he  would 
have  an  attentive  hearer,  for  he  was  playing  one  of  Bach's 
greatest  preludes  and  fugues.  Father  Robertson  stayed  on 
in  his  place.  All  the  rest  of  the  small  congregation  drifted 
away  through  the  archway  in  the  rood-screen  and  down  the 
steps  to  the  nave.  The  fugue  was  a  glorious,  sturdy  thing, 
like  a  great  solid  body  inhabited  by  a  big,  noble,  unquestioning 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  277 

soul  —  a  soul  free  from  hesitations,  that  knew  its  way  to  God 
and  would  not  be  hindered  from  taking  it.  A  straight  course 
to  the  predestined  end  —  that  was  good,  that  was  glorious! 
The  splendid  clamor  of  the  organ  above  her,  growing  in  sonor- 
ous force,  filled  Rosamund  with  exultation.  She  longed  to 
open  her  mouth  and  sing;  the  blood  came  to  her  cheeks;  her 
eyes  shone ;  she  mounted  on  the  waves  of  sound ;  she  was  wound 
up  with  the  great  fugue,  and  felt  herself  part  of  it.  The 
gradual  working  up  thrilled  her  whole  being;  she  was  physically 
and  spiritually  seized  hold  of  and  carried  along  towards  a 
great  and  satisfying  end.  At  last  came  the  trumpet  with  its 
sound  of  triumphant  flame,  and  the  roar  of  the  pedals  was  like 
the  roaring  of  the  sea.  Already  the  end  was  there,  grandly 
inherent  in  the  music,  inevitable,  desired  by  all  the  voices  of 
the  organ.  All  the  powers  of  the  organ  thundered  towards  itj 
straining  to  be  there. 

It  came,  like  something  on  the  top  of  the  world. 

"  If  I  were  a  man  that's  the  way  I  should  like  to  go  to  God!  " 
said  Rosamund  to  herself,  springing  up.  "That's  the  way, 
in  a  chariot  of  fire." 

Unconscious  of  what  she  was  doing  she  stretched  out  her 
hands  with  a  big  gesture  and  opened  her  lips  to  let  out  a 
breath;  then,  in  the  gray  silence  of  the  now  empty  Cathedral, 
she  saw  Father  Robertson's  eyes. 

He  stepped  down  from  his  stall  and  went  out  through  the 
archway,  and  she  followed  him.  On  the  steps,  just  beyond 
the  rood-screen,  she  met  a  small,  determined-looking  man  with 
hot  cheeks  and  shining  eyes.  She  guessed  at  once  that  he  was 
the  organist,  went  up  to  him  and  thanked  him  enthusiastic- 
ally. 

The  organist  was  the  first  person  she  captivated  in  Welsley, 
where  she  was  to  have  so  many  warm  adherents  very  soon. 

Father  Robertson  went  back  to  Canon  Wilton's  house  while 
Rosamund  talked  to  the  organist,  with  whom  she  walked  as  far 
as  a  high  wooden  gate  labeled  "  Mr.  Dickinson." 

"  You've  got  a  walled  garden  too !  "  she  remarked,  as  her 
companion  took  off  his  hat  with  an  "  I  live  here." 

The  organist  looked  inquiring.     Rosamund  laughed. 

"  How  could  you  know  ?  It's  only  that  I've  been  visiting 
a  delicious  old  house,  with  a  walled  garden,  to-day.  It's  to 
let." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Duncan  Browning's!"  said  Mr.  Dickinson. 
"I  —  I'm  sure  I  hope  you're  going  to  take  it." 


278  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  may!  "  said  Rosamund.  "  Good-by,  and  thank  you  again 
for  your  splendid  music.  It's  done  me  good." 

"  My  dear!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dickinson,  about  a  minute  later, 
bursting  —  rather  than  going  —  into  his  wife's  small  drawing- 
room,  "  I've  just  met  the  most  delightful  woman,  a  goddess  to 
look  at,  and  as  charming  as  a  siren  brought  up  to  be  a  saint." 

"More  epigrams,  Henry!"  murmured  Mrs.  Dickinson. 

"  She's  staying  with  Canon  Wilton.  She's  a  thorough  mu- 
sician such  as  one  seldom  comes  across.  There's  a  chance  —  I 
hope  it  materializes  —  of  her  taking " 

"  Your  tea  is  nearly  cold,  Henry." 

"  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Dion  Leith.  If  she  really  does  come 
here  we  must  be  sure  to " 

"  Scones,  Henry  ?  " 

Thus  urged,  Mr.  Dickinson's  body  for  the  moment  took  pre- 
cedence of  his  soul. 

Rosamund  knew  she  was  going  to  like  Mr.  Robertson  as  she 
liked  very  few  people.  She  felt  as  if  already  she  was  his 
friend,  and  when  they  shook  hands  in  Canon  Wilton's  draw- 
ing-room she  cordially  told  him  so,  and  referred  to  the  Sunday 
evening  when  she  had  heard  him  preach.  The  rooks  were 
cawing  among  the  elms  in  the  Canon's  garden.  She  could  hear 
their  voices  in  the  treetops  while  she  was  speaking.  A  wind 
was  stirring  as  the  afternoon  waned,  and  there  came  a  patter 
of  rain  on  the  lofty  windows.  And  the  voices  of  the  rooks 
in  the  windy  treetops,  the  patter  of  the  rain,  and  the  sigh  of 
the  wind  were  delightful  to  Rosamund,  because  she  was  safely 
within  the  Precincts,  like  a  bird  surrounded  by  the  warmth  of 
its  nest. 

"  I'm  coming  to  live  here,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Robertson,  as 
she  poured  out  tea  for  the  two  clergymen.  "  My  husband  has 
gone  to  South  Africa  with  the  City  Imperial  Volunteers.  He's 
in  business,  so  we  live  in  London.  But  while  he's  away  I  mean 
to  stay  here." 

And  eagerly  almost  as  a  child,  she  told  him  about  the  house 
of  the  Dean's  widow',  and  described  to  him  the  garden. 

"  It's  like  a  convent  garden,  isn't  it?  "  she  asked  Canon  Wil- 
ton, who  assented.  "  That's  why  I  love  it.  It  gives  me  the 
feeling  of  enclosed  peace  that  must  be  so  dear  to  nuns." 

Something  in  her  voice  and  look  as  she  said  this  evidently 
struck  Mr.  Robertson,  and  when  she  presently  left  the  room  he 
said  to  Canon  Wilton: 

"  If   I   didn't  know  that  sweet  woman  had   a  husband   I 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  279 

should  say  she  was  born  with  the  vocation  for  a  religious  life. 
From  the  first  moment  I  spoke  to  her,  looked  at  her,  I  felt  that, 
and  the  feeling  grows  upon  me.  Can't  one  see  her  among  sis- 
ters?" 

"  I  don't  wish  to,"  said  Canon  Wilton  bluntly.  "  Shall  we 
go  to  my  study?  " 

With  the  composed  gentleness  that  was  characteristic  of  him 
Father  Robertson  assented,  and  they  went  downstairs.  When 
they  were  safely  shut  up  in  the  big  room,  guarded  by  multitudes 
of  soberly  bound  volumes,  Canon  Wilton  said: 

"  Robertson,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  in  confidence  about  my 
guest,  who,  as  you  say,  is  a  very  sweet  woman.  You  could  do 
something  for  her  which  I  couldn't  do.  I  have  none  of  your  im- 
pelling gentleness.  You  know  how  to  stir  that  which  dwells  in 
the  inner  sanctuary,  to  start  it  working  for  itself;  I'm  more  apt 
to  try  to  work  for  it,  or  at  it.  Perhaps  I  can  rouse  up  a  sinner 
and  make  him  think.  I've  got  a  good  bit  of  the  instinct  of  the 
missioner.  But  my  dear  guest  here  isn't  a  sinner,  except  as  we 
all  are!'  She's  a  very  good  woman  who  doesn't  quite  under- 
stand. I  think  perhaps  you  might  help  her  to  understand.  She 
possesses  a  great  love,  and  she  doesn't  know  quite  how  to  handle 
it,  or  even  to  value  it." 

The  clock  struck  seven  when  they  stopped  talking. 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  Canon  Wilton  asked  Rosamund  to 
sing.  Almost  eagerly  she  agreed. 

"  I  shall  love  to  sing  in  the  Precincts,"  she  said,  as  she  went 
to  the  piano. 

Father  Robertson,  who  had  been  sitting  with  his  back  to 
the  piano,  moved  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  While  Rosa- 
mund sang  he  watched  her  closely.  He  saw  that  she  was  quite 
unconscious  of  being  watched,  and  her  unconsciousness  of  her- 
self made  him  almost  love  her.  Her  great  talent  he  appreci- 
ated fully,  for  he  was  devoted  to  music;  but  he  appreciated 
much  more  the  moral  qualities  she  showed  in  her  singing.  He 
was  a  man  who  could  not  forbear  from  searching  for  the  soul, 
from  following  its  workings.  He  had  met  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men,  and  with  few  he  had  not  been  friends.  He 
had  known,  knew  now,  scientists  for  whose  characters  and  lives 
he  had  strong  admiration,  and  who  felt  positive  that  the  so- 
called  soul  of  man  was  merely  the  product  of  the  brain,  resided 
in  the  brain,  and  must  cease  with  the  dispersal  of  the  brain 
at  death.  He  was  not  able  to  prove  the  contrary.  That  did 
not  trouble  him  at  all.  It  was  not  within  the  power  of  any- 


280  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

thing  or  of  any  one  to  trouble  this  man's  faith.  He  did  not 
mind  being  thought  a  fool.  Indeed,  being  without  conceit, 
and  even  very  modest,  he  believed  himself  to  be  sometimes  very 
foolish.  But  he  knew  he  was  not  a  fool  in  his  faith,  which 
transcended  forms,  and  swore  instinctively  brotherhood  with  all 
honest  beliefs,  and  even  with  all  honest  disbeliefs.  In  his  gen- 
tle, sometimes  slightly  whimsical  way,  he  was  as  sincere  as 
Canon  Wilton;  but  whereas  the  Canon  showed  the  blunt  side 
of  sincerity,  he  usually  showed  the  tender  and  winning  side. 
He  found  good  in  others  as  easily  and  as  surely  as  the  diviner 
finds  the  spring  hidden  under  the  hard  earth's  surface.  His 
hazel  twig  twisted  if  there  was  present  only  one  drop  of  the 
holy  water. 

He  discerned  many  drops  in  Rosamund.  In  nothing  of  her 
was  her  enthusiasm  for  what  was  noble  and  clean  and  sane  and 
beautiful  more  apparent  than  in  her  singing.  Her  voice  and 
her  talent  were  in  service  when  she  sang,  in  service  to  the  good. 
Music  can  be  evil,  neurotic,  decadent  and  even  utterly  base. 
She  never  touched  musical  filth,  which  she  recognized  as  swiftly 
as  dirt  on  a  body  or  corruption  in  a  soul. 

"  We  must  have  Bach's  '  Heart  ever  faithful,'  "  said  Canon 
Wilton  strongly,  when  Rosamund,  after  much  singing,  was 
about  to  get  up  from  the  piano. 

Almost  joyfully  she  obeyed  his  smiling  command.  When  at 
last  she  shut  the  piano  she  said  to  Father  Robertson: 

"That's  Dion's  —  my  husband's  —  best-loved  melody." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  your  husband,"  said  Father  Robert- 
son. 

"  You  must,  when  he  comes  back." 

"  You  have  no  idea,  I  suppose,  how  long  he  will  be  away?  " 

"  No,  nor  has  he." 

"  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  Mrs.  Browning's 
house?  "  said  the  Canon's  bass. 

"  Oh  —  well " 

Two  lines  appeared  in  her  forehead. 

"  I  thought  of  taking  it  for  six  months,  and  then  I  can  see. 
My  little  house  in  Westminster  is  let  for  six  months  from  the 
first  of  March."  She  had  turned  to  Father  Robertson:  "  I'm 
only  afraid "  She  paused.  She  looked  almost  dis- 
turbed. 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of?  "  asked  Canon  Wilton. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  getting  too  fond  of  Welsley." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  281 

The  Canon  looked  across  at  Father  Robertson  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fireplace. 


Rosamund  went  back  to  Robin  and  London  on  the  following 
afternoon.  In  the  morning  she  took  Father  Robertson  to  see 
Mrs.  Browning's  house.  Canon  Wilton  was  busy.  After  the 
morning  service  in  the  Cathedral  he  had  to  go  to  a  meeting  of 
the  Chapter,  and  later  on  to  a  meeting  in  the  City  about  some- 
thing connected  with  education. 

"  I  shall  be  in  bonds  till  lunch,"  he  said,  "  unless  I  burst 
them,  as  I'm  afraid  I  sometimes  feel  inclined  to  do  when  people 
talk  at  great  length  on  subjects  they  know  nothing  about." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Leith  will  kindly  take  me  to  see  her  house 
and  garden,"  observed  Father  Robertson. 

Rosamund  was  frankly  delighted. 

"  Bless  you  for  calling  them  mine!  "  she  said.  "  That's  just 
what  I'm  longing  to  do." 

The  wind  and  the  rain  were  still  hanging  about  in  a  fash- 
ion rather  undecided.  It  was  a  morning  of  gusts  and  of  show- 
ers. The  rooks  swayed  in  the  elm  tops,  or  flew  up  under  the 
scudding  clouds  of  a  treacherous  sky.  There  was  a  strong 
smell  of  damp  earth,  and  the  turf  of  the  wide  spreading  lawns 
looked  spongy. 

"  Oh,  how  English  this  is!  "  said  Rosamund  enthusiastically 
to  the  Father  as  they  set  forth  together.  "  It's  like  the  smell 
of  the  soul  of  England.  I  love  it.  I  should  like  to  lie  on  the 
grass  and  feel  the  rain  on  my  face." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  rheumatism  evidently,"  said  Father 
Robertson,  in  a  voice  that  was  smiling. 

"No,  but  I  suppose  I  should  if  I  gave  way  to  my  impulse. 
And  the  rooks  would  be  shocked." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  Cathedral  dignitaries  ?  " 

They  were  gently  gay  as  they  walked  along,  but  very  soon 
Rosamund,  in  her  very  human  but  wholly  unconscious  way,  put 
her  hand  on  Father  Robertson's  arm. 

"There  it  is!  " 

"Your  house?" 

"Yes.  Isn't  it  sweet?  Doesn't  it  look  peacefully  old?  I 
should  like  to  grow  old  like  that,  calmly,  unafraid  and  unrepin- 
ing.  I  knew  you'd  love  it." 

He  had  not  said  so,  but  that  did  not  matter. 


282  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  There's  a  dear  old  caretaker,  with  only  one  tooth  in  front 
and  such  nice  gray  eyes,  who'll  let  us  in.  Not  an  electric 
bell!" 

She  gave  him  a  look  half  confidential,  half  humorous,  and 
wholly  girlish. 

"  We  have  to  pull  it.     That's  so  much  nicer!  " 

She  pulled,  and  the  dear  old  caretaker,  a  woman  in  Cathe- 
dral black,  with  the  look  of  a  verger's  widow  all  over  her, 
showed  the  tooth  in  a  smile  as  she  peeped  round  the  door. 

"  And  now  the  garden !  "  said  Rosamund,  in  the  withdrawn 
voice  of  an  intense  anticipation,  half  an  hour  later,  when  Fa- 
ther Robertson  had  seen,  and  been  consulted,  about  everything 
from  kitchen  to  attic. 

She  turned  round  to  Mrs.  Soper,  as  the  verger's  widow  —  in- 
deed she  was  that !  —  was  called. 

"  Shall  you  mind  if  we  stay  a  good  while  in  the  garden,  Mrs. 
Soper?  It's  so  delightful  there.  Will  it  bother  you?  " 

"Most  pleased,  ma'am!  I  couldn't  wish  for  anything  else. 
You  do  hear  the  chimes  most  beautiful  from  there.  But  it's 
very  damp.  That  we  must  allow." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  the  damp,  Father?  " 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  be,"  she  said,  almost  exultantly. 

Mrs.  Soper  took  her  stand  by  the  drawing-room  window  and 
gazed  through  the  lattice  with  the  deep  interest  which  seems  pe- 
culiar to  provincial  towns,  and  which  is  seldom  manifested  in 
capitals,  where  the  curiosity  is  rather  of  the  surface  than  of  the 
very  entrails  of  humanity.  She  showed  the  tooth  as  she  stood, 
but  not  in  a  smile.  She  was  far  too  interested  in  the  lady  and 
the  white-haired  clergyman  to  smile. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  what  they're  going  to  be  mar- 
ried !  "  was  her  feminine  thought,  as  she  watched  them  walking 
about  the  garden,  and  presently  pacing  up  and  down  one  of 
the  narrow  paths,  to  the  far-off  wall  that  bordered  one  end  of 
the  Bishop's  Palace,  and  back  again  to  the  wall  near  the  Dark 
Entry.  Canon  Wilton  had  not  mentioned  Rosamund's  name 
to  the  verger's  widow,  who  had  no  evil  thoughts  of  bigamy. 
Presently  the  chimes  sounded  in  the  tower,  and  Mrs.  Soper  saw 
the  two  visitors  pause  in  their  walk  to  listen.  They  both  looked 
upwards  towards  the  Cathedral,  and  on  the  lady's  face  there  was 
a  rapt  expression  which  was  remarked  by  Mrs.  Soper. 

"  She  do  look  religious,"  murmured  that  lady  to  the  tooth. 
"  She  might  be  a  bishop's  lady  when  she  a-stands  like  that." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  283 

The  chimes  died  away,  the  visitors  resumed  their  pacing  walk, 
and  Mrs.  Soper  presently  retired  to  the  kitchen,  which  looked 
out  on  the  passage-way,  to  cook  herself  "  a  bit  of  something  " 
for  the  midday  staying  of  her  stomach. 

In  the  garden  that  morning  Rosamund  and  Father  Robert- 
son became  friends.  Rosamund  had  never  had  an  Anglican 
confessor,  though  she  had  sometimes  wished  to  confess,  not  be- 
cause she  was  specially  conscious  of  a  burden  of  sin,  but  rather 
because  she  longed  to  speak  to  some  one  of  those  inmost  thoughts 
which  men  and  women  seldom  care  to  discuss  with  those  who 
are  always  in  their  lives.  In  Father  Robertson  she  had  found 
the  exceptional  man  with  whom  she  would  not  mind  being  per- 
fectly frank  about  matters  which  were  not  for  Dion,  not  for 
Beattie,  not  for  godfather  —  matters  which  she  could  never 
have  hinted  at  even  to  Canon  Wilton,  whose  strong  serenity 
she  deeply  admired.  Had  any  of  her  nearest  and  dearest 
heard  Rosamund's  talk  with  Father  Robertson  that  day,  they 
would  have  realized,  perhaps  with  astonishment,  how  strong 
was  the  reserve  which  underlay  her  forthcoming  manner  and 
capacious  frankness  about  the  ordinary  matters  of  everyday  ex- 
istence. 

"  Father,  a  sermon  from  you  changed  my  life,  I  think,"  she 
said,  when  they  had  paced  up  and  down  the  path  only  two  or 
three  times;  and,  without  any  self -consciousness,  she  told  him 
of  Dion's  proposal  on  that  foggy  afternoon  in  London,  of  her 
visit  to  St.  Mary's,  Welby  Street,  and  of  the  impression  the 
sermon  had  made  upon  her.  She  described  her  return  home, 
and  the  painful  sensation  which  had  beset  her  when  she  lost 
herself  in  the  fog  —  the  sensation  of  desertion,  of  a  horror  of 
loneliness. 

"  The  next  day  I  accepted  my  husband,"  she  said.  "  I  re- 
solved to  take  the  path  of  life  along  which  I  could  walk  with 
another.  I  decided  to  share.  Do  you  remember?  " 

She  looked  at  him  gently,  earnestly,  and  he  understood  the 
allusion  to  his  sermon. 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  But," —  his  question  came  very  gently 
• — "  in  coming  to  that  decision,  were  you  making  a  sacrifice?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was." 

And  then  Rosamund  made  a  confession  such  as  she  had  never 
yet  made  to  any  one,  though  once  she  had  allowed  Dion  to 
know  a  little  of  what  was  in  her  heart.  She  told  Father  Rob- 
ertson of  the  something  almost  imperious  within  her  which 
had  longed  for  the  religious  life.  He  listened  to  the  story  of 


284  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  vocation ;  and  he  was  able  to  understand  it  as  certainly  Canon 
Wilton  could  not  have  understood  it.  For  Rosamund's  creep- 
ing hunger  had  been  not  for  the  life  of  hard  work  among  the 
poor  in  religion,  not  for  the  dedication  of  all  her  energies  to  the 
lost  and  unreclaimed,  who  are  sunk  in  the  mire  of  the  world, 
but  for  that  peculiar  life  of  the  mystic  who  leaves  the  court 
of  the  outer  things  for  the  court  of  the  mysteries,  the  inner 
things,  who  enters  into  prayer  as  into  a  dark  shell  filled  with 
the  vast  and  unceasing  murmur  of  the  voice  which  is  not  hu- 
man. 

"  I  wished  to  sing  in  public  for  a  time.  Something  made 
me  long  to  use  my  voice,  to  express  myself  in  singing  noble 
music,  in  helping  on  its  message.  But  I  meant  to  retire  while 
I  was  still  quite  young.  And  always  at  the  back  of  my  mind 
there  was  the  thought  — '  then  I'll  leave  the  world,  I'll  give  my- 
self up  to  God.'  I  longed  for  the  enclosed  life  of  perpetual 
devotion.  I  didn't  know  whether  there  was  any  community  in 
our  Church  which  I  could  join,  and  in.  which  I  could  find  what 
I  thought  I  needed.  I  didn't  get  so  far  as  that.  You  see  I 
meant  to  be  a  singer  at  first." 

"  Yes,  I  quite  understand.  And  the  giving  up  of  this  mys- 
tical dream  was  a  great  sacrifice  ?  " 

"  Really  it  was.  I  had  a  sort  of  absolute  hunger  in  me  to  do 
eventually  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  I  understand  that  hunger,"  said  Father  Robertson. 

Just  then  the  chimes  sounded  in  the  Cathedral,  and  they 
stopped  on  the  narrow  path  to  listen,  looking  up  at  the  great 
gray  tower  which  held  the  voices  sweet  to  their  souls. 

"  I  understand  that  hunger,"  he  repeated,  when  the  chimes 
died  away.  "  It  can  be  fierce  as  any  hunger  after  a  sin.  In 
your  case  you  felt  it  was  not  free  from  egoism,  this  strong  de- 
sire? " 

"  Your  sermon  made  me  look  into  my  heart,  and  I  did  think 
that  perhaps  I  was  an  egoist  in  my  religious  feeling,  that  I 
was  selfishly  intent  on  my  own  soul,  that  in  my  religion,  if  I 
did  what  I  longed  presently  to  do,  I  should  be  thinking  almost 
solely  of  myself." 

Rather  abruptly  Father  Robertson  put  a  question : 

"  There  was  nothing  else  which  drew  you  towards  mar- 
riage? " 

"  I  liked  and  admired  Dion  very  much.  I  thought  him  an 
exceptional  sort  of  man.  I  knew  he  cared  for  me  in  a  beauti- 
ful sort  of  way.  That  touched  me.  And  " —  she  slightly  hesi- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  285 

tated,  and  a  soft  flush  came  to  her  cheeks  — "  I  felt  that  he  was 
a  good  man  in  a  way  —  I  believe,  I  am  almost  sure,  that  very 
few  young  men  are  good  in  the  particular  way  I  mean.  Of  all 
the  things  in  Dion  that  was  the  one  which  most  strongly  called 
to  me." 

Father  Robertson  understood  her  allusion  to  physical  purity. 

"  I  couldn't  have  married  him  but  for  that,"  she  added. 

"  If  I  had  known  you  when  you  were  a  girl  I  believe  I 
should  not  have  expected  you  to  marry,"  said  Father  Robert- 
son. 

Afterwards,  when  he  had  seen  Rosamund  with  Robin,  he 
thought  he  had  been  very  blind  when  he  had  said  that. 

"  You  understand  me,"  she  said,  very  simply.  "  But  I  knew 
you  would." 

"  You  have  given  up  something.  Many  people,  perhaps 
most  people,  would  deny  that.  But  I  know  how  difficult  it 
is  " —  his  voice  became  lower  — "  to  give  up  retirement,  to  give 
up  that  food  which  the  soul  instinctively  longs  to  find,  thinks 
perhaps  it  only  can  find,  in  silence,  perpetual  meditation,  per- 
petual prayer,  in  the  world  that  is  purged  of  the  insistent 
clamor  of  human  voices.  But  " —  he  straightened  himself  with 
a  quick  movement,  and  his  voice  became  firmer  — "  a  man  may 
wish  to  draw  near  to  God  in  the  Wilderness,  or  in  the  desert, 
and  may  find  Him  most  surely  in  " —  and  here  he  hesitated 
slightly,  almost  as  a  few  minutes  before  Rosamund  had  hesi- 
tated — "  in  the  Liverpool  slums.  What  a  blessing  it  is,  what 
an  unspeakable  blessing  it  is,  when  one  has  learnt  the  lesson 
that  God  is  everywhere.  But  how  difficult  it  is  to  learn!  " 

They  walked  together  for  a  long  time  in  the  garden,  and 
Rosamund  felt  strangely  at  ease,  like  one  who  has  entered  a 
haven  and  has  found  the  desired  peace.  She  had  given  up 
something,  but  how  much  had  been  given  to  her !  In  the  shelter 
of  the  gray  towers,  and  within  the  enclosing  walls,  she  would  go 
again  to  some  of  her  dreams,  while  the  chimes  marked  the  pass- 
ing of  the  quiet  hours,  and  the  watchman's  voice  was  lifted  up 
to  the  stars  which  looked  down  on  Welsley. 

And  Robin  would  be  with  her. 


286  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  LITTLE  more  than  six  months  later,  when  a  golden 
September  lay  over  the  land,  Rosamund  could  scarcely 
believe  that  she  had  ever  lived  out  of  Welsley.  Dion 
was  still  in  South  Africa,  in  good  health  and  "  without  a 
scratch."  In  his  last  letter  home  he  had  written  that  he  had 
no  idea  how  long  the  C.  I.  V.'s  would  be  kept  in  South  Africa. 
The  war  dragged  on,  and  despite  the  English  successes  which 
had  followed  such  bitter  defeats  no  one  could  say  when  it 
would  end.  There  was  no  immediate  reason,  therefore,  for 
Rosamund  to  move  back  to  London. 

She  dreaded  that  return.  She  loved  Welsley  and  could  not 
now  imagine  herself  living  anywhere  else.  Robin,  too  was  a 
pronounced,  even  an  enthusiastic,  "  Welsleyite,"  and  had  prac- 
tically forgotten  "  old  London,"  as  he  negligently  called  the 
greatest  city  in  the  world.  They  were  very  happy  in  Welsley. 
In  fact,  the  Dean's  widow  was  the  only  rift  in  Rosamund's  lute, 
that  lute  which  was  so  full  of  sweet  and  harmonious  music. 

Rosamund's  lease  of  the  house  in  the  Precincts,  "  Little 
Cloisters,"  as  it  was  deliciously  named,  had  been  for  six  months, 
from  the  1st  of  March  till  the  1st  of  September.  As  Dion  was 
not  coming  home  yet,  and  as  he  wrote  begging  her  to  live  on 
at  Welsley  if  she  preferred  it  to  London,  she  was  anxious  to 
"  renew  "  for  another  six  months.  The  question  whether  Mrs. 
Duncan  Browning  would,  or  would  not,  renew  really  tormented 
Rosamund,  and  the  uncertainty  in  which  she  was  living,  and 
the  misery  it  caused  her,  showed  her  how  much  of  her  heart 
had  been  given  to  Welsley. 

The  Dean's  widow  was  capricious  and  swayed  by  fluctua- 
tions of  health.  She  was  "  up  and  down,"  whatever  that  be- 
tokened. At  one  moment  she  "  saw  the  sun," —  her  poetical 
way  of  expressing  that  she  began  to  feel  pretty  well, —  and 
thought  she  had  had  enough  of  the  "  frivolous  existence  one 
leads  in  an  hotel  ";  at  another  a  fit  of  sneezing, — "  not  the  early 
morning  sneeze  but  the  real  thing," —  a  pang  of  rheumatism, 
or  a  touch  of  bronchitis,  made  her  fear  for  the  damp  of  Wels- 
ley. She  would  and  she  would  not,  and  Rosamund  could  not 
induce  her  to  come  to  a  decision,  and  suffered  agonies  at  the 
thought  of  being  turned  out  of  Little  Cloisters.  When  Dion 
came  back,  of  course,  a  flitting  from  Welsley  would  have  to  be 
faced,  but  to  be  driven  away  without  that  imperative  reason 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  287 

would  indeed  be  gall  and  wormwood.  There  were  days  when 
Rosamund  felt  unchristian  towards  Mrs.  Dean,  upon  whom  she 
had  never  looked,  but  with  whom  she  had  exchanged  a  great 
many  cordial  letters. 

In  August,  under  the  influence  of  a  "  heavy  cold,  which  seems 
the  worse  because  of  the  heat,"  Mrs.  Browning  had  agreed  to 
let  Rosamund  stay  on  for  another  month,  September;  and  now 
Rosamund  was  anxiously  awaiting  a  reply  to  her  almost  im- 
passioned appeal  for  a  six  months'  extension  of  her  lease. 
Canon  Wilton  was  again  in  residence  in  the  Precincts,  and  one 
afternoon  he  called  at  Little  Cloisters,  after  the  three  o'clock 
service,  to  inquire  what  was  the  result  of  this  appeal.  Beatrice 
was  staying  with  her  sister  for  a  few  days,  and  when  the  Canon 
was  shown  in  she  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  having  just 
come  up  from  the  garden,  where  she  had  been  playing  with 
Robin,  whose  chirping  high  voice  was  audible,  floating  up  from 
below. 

"Is  your  sister  busy?"  asked  the  Canon,  after  greeting 
Beatrice. 

Beatrice  smiled  faintly. 

"  She's  in  her  den.     What  do  you  think  she  is  doing?  " 

The  Canon  looked  hard  at  her,  and  he  too  smiled. 

"  Not  writing  again  to  Mrs.  Browning  ?  " 

Beatrice  nodded,  and  sat  gently  down  on  the  window-seat. 

"  Begging  and  praying  for  an  extension." 

"  I've  never  seen  any  one  so  in  love  with  a  place  as  your  sister 
is  with  Welsley." 

He  sat  down  near  Beatrice. 

"  But  it  is  attractive,  isn't  it?  "  she  said. 

She  turned  her  head  slowly  and  looked  out  of  the  open  win- 
dow to  the  enclosed  garden  which  was  bathed  in  mellow  sun- 
shine. The  sky  above  the  gray  Cathedral  towers  was  a  clear 
and  delicate,  not  deep,  blue.  Above  the  mossy  red  wall  of  the 
garden  appeared  the  ruined  arches  of  the  cloisters  which  gave 
to  the  house  its  name.  Among  them  some  doves  were  cooing. 
Up  in  the  blue,  about  the  pinnacles  of  the  towers,  the  rooks 
were  busily  flying.  Robin,  in  a  little  loose  shirt,  green  knicker- 
bockers, and  a  tiny  soft  white  hat  set  well  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  was  gardening  just  below  the  window  with  the  intensity 
that  belongs  to  the  dawn.  His  bare  brown  legs  moved  rapidly, 
as  he  ran  from  place  to  place  carrying  earth,  a  plant,  a  bright 
red  watering-pot.  The  gardener,  a  large  young  man,  with 
whom  Robin  was  evidently  on  the  most  friendly,  and  even  inti- 


288  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

mate,  terms,  was  working  with  him,  and  apparently  under  his 
close  and  constant  supervision.  A  thrush  with  very  bright  eyes 
looked  on  from  an  adjacent  elder  bush.  Upon  the  wall,  near 
the  end  of  the  Bishop's  Palace,  a  black  cat  was  sunning  itself 
and  lazily  attending  to  its  toilet. 

"  It's  the  very  place  for  Rosamund,"  said  Beatrice,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  she  drank  in  Welsley.  "  She  seems  to 
know  and  love  every  stick  and  stone  in  it." 

"  And  almost  every  man,  woman  and  child,"  said  the  Canon. 
"  She  began  by  captivating  the  Precincts, —  not  such  an  easy 
task  either,  for  a  bishop  usually  has  not  the  taste  of  a  dean, 
and  minor  canons  think  very  lightly  of  the  praises  of  an  arch- 
deacon,—  and  she  has  ended  by  captivating  the  whole  city. 
Even  the  wives  of  the  clergy  sing  her  praises  with  one  accord. 
It's  the  greatest  triumph  in  the  history  of  the  church." 

"  You  see  she  likes  them  and  is  thoroughly  interested  in  all 
their  little  affairs." 

"  Yes,  it's  genuine  sympathy.  She  makes  Welsley  her  world, 
and  so  Welsley  thinks  the  world  of  her." 

He  looked  across  at  Beatrice  for  a  moment  meditatively,  and 
then  said: 

"  And  when  her  husband  comes  back?  " 

"  Dion!     Well,  then,  of  course " 

She  hesitated,  and  in  the  silence  the  drawing-room   door 
opened  and  Rosamund  came  in,  holding  an  open  letter  in  her. 
hand,  knitting  her  brows,  and  looking  very  grave  and  intense. 
She  greeted  the  Canon  with  her  usual  warm  cordiality,  but  still 
looked  grave  and  preoccupied. 

"  I've  been  writing  to  Mrs.  Browning,  about  this  house,"  she 
said  earnestly.  "  It  is  damp,  isn't  it?  " 

"Damp?"  said  the  Canon.  "I've  never  noticed  it.  But 
then  do  you  think  the  house  is  unwholesome?  " 

"  Not  for  us.  What  I  feel  is,  that  for  a  bronchial  person  it 
might  be." 

She  paused,  looking  at  her  letter. 

"  I've  put  just  what  I  feel  here,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing. I  know  the  house  is  considered  damp;  by  the  Precincts, 
I  mean.  Mrs.  Murry  told  me  so,  and  Mrs.  Tiling-Smith  thinks 
the  same.  Even  the  Bishop  —  why  are  you  smiling,  Canon 
Wilton?" 

But  she  began  to  smile  too. 

"  What  does  the  Bishop  say  about  the  danger  to  health  of 
Little  Cloisters?" 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  289 

Her  lips  twitched,  but  she  replied  with  firm  sweetness: 

"  The  Bishop  says  that  all,  or  nearly  all,  old  houses  are  apt 
to  be  damp  in  winter." 

"  A  weighty  utterance !  But  I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Browning  — 
by  the  way,  have  you  put  the  Bishop  into  your  letter?  " 

"  I  had  thought  of  reading  it  to  you  both,  but  now  I  shall 
not." 

She  put  the  letter  into  an  envelope,  sealed  it  up  with  prac- 
tical swiftness,  rang  the  bell  for  Annie  and  sent  it  to  the  post- 
box  round  the  corner. 

"  I  did  put  the  Bishop  in,"  she  added,  with  a  mockery  of  de- 
fiance that  was  almost  girlish,  when  Annie  had  gone  out. 

"  That  was  a  mistake,"  said  the  Canon  sonorously. 

"  Why?  " 

"  Bishops  never  carry  weight  with  the  wives,  or  widows,  of 
deans." 

"  But  why  not?  "  asked  Rosamund,  with  a  touch  of  real  anx- 
iety. 

"  Because  the  wives  of  deans  always  think  their  husbands 
ought  to  be  bishops  instead  of  those  who  are  bishops,  and  the 
widows  of  deans  always  consider  that  they  ought  to  be  the 
widows  of  bishops.  They  therefore  very  naturally  feel  that 
bishops  are  not  entitled  by  merit  to  the  positions  they  hold,  and 
should  be  treated  with  a  delicate  disdain." 

"  I  never  thought  of  that.     I  wonder  if  Annie " 

"  Too  late!  "  said  the  Canon.  "  You'll  have  to  turn  out  of 
Little  Cloisters,  I  foresee  that." 

Rosamund  sat  down,  leaned  towards  him  with  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  together,  and,  in  her  absolutely  unself-conscious 
way,  began  to  tell  him  and  Beattie  what  she  felt  about  Wels- 
ley,  or  something  of  what  she  felt.  A  good  deal  she  could  only 
have  told  to  Father  Robertson.  When  she  had  finished,  Canon 
Wilton  said,  in  his  rather  abrupt  and  blunt  way: 

"  Well,  but  if  your  husband  comes  home  unexpectedly?  You 
can't  stay  here  then,  can  you?  " 

Beatrice,  who  was  still  on  the  window  seat,  leaned  out,  and 
began  to  speak  to  Robin  below  her  in  a  quiet  voice  which  could 
scarcely  be  heard  within  the  room. 

"  But  Dion  sees  no  prospect  of  coming  home  yet." 

"  I  heard  to-day  from  some  one  in  London  that  the  C.  I.  V. 
may  be  back  before  Christmas." 

"  Dion  doesn't  say  so." 

"  It  mayn't  be  true." 


290  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Dion  writes  that  no  one  out  there  has  any  idea  when  the 
war  will  end." 

"  Probably  not.  But  the  C.  I.  V.  mayn't  be  needed  all 
through  the  war.  Most  of  them  are  busy  men  who've  given  up 
a  great  deal  out  of  sheer  patriotism.  Fine  fellows!  They've 
done  admirable  work,  and  the  War  Office  may  decide  that 
they've  done  enough.  Things  out  there  have  taken  a  great  turn 
since  Roberts  and  Kitchener  went  out.  The  C.  I.  V.  may  come 
marching  home  long  before  peace  is  declared." 

He  spoke  with  a  certain  pressure,  a  certain  intensity,  and 
his  eyes  never  left  Rosamund's  face. 

"  I'm  glad  my  Dion's  one  of  them,"  she  said.  "  And  Robin 
will  be  glad,  too,  some  day." 

She  said  nothing  more  about  Mrs.  Browning  and  Little 
Cloisters.  But  when  Canon  Wilton  had  gone  she  said  to  her 
sister : 

"  Beattie,  does  it  ever  strike  you  that  Canon  Wilton's  rather 
abrupt  and  unexpected  sometimes  in  what  he  says?  " 

"  He  doesn't  beat  about  the  bush,"  replied  Beatrice.  "  Do 
you  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  do.  Now  I'm  going  down  to  Robin.  How 
strong  he's  getting  here!  Hark  at  his  voice!  Can't  you  hear 
even  in  his  voice  how  much  good  Welsley  has  done  him?  " 

Robin's  determined  treble  was  audible  as  he  piped  out: 

"  Oh  no,  Fipper!  not  by  the  Bish's  wall!  Why,  I  say,  the 
slugs  always  comes  there.  They  do,  weally!  You  come  and 
see!  Come  quick!  I'll  show " 

The  voice  faded  in  the  direction  of  the  Palace. 

"  I  must  go  down  and  see  if  it's  true  about  the  slugs,"  ex- 
claimed Rosamund. 

And  with  beaming  eyes  she  hastened  out  of  the  room. 

Beatrice  looked  after  her  and  sighed.  Dion's  last  letter  from 
South  Africa  was  lying  on  the  writing-table  close  to  her.  Rosa- 
mund had  already  given  it  to  her  to  read.  Now  she  took  it 
up  and  read  it  carefully  again.  The  doves  cooed  in  the  clois- 
ters; the  bells  chimed  in  the  tower;  the  mellow  sunshine  —  al- 
ready the  sunshine  not  of  full  summer,  but  of  the  dawning 
autumn,  with  its  golden  presage  of  days  not  golden,  and  of 
nights  heavy  with  dews  and  laden  with  floating  leaves, —  came 
in  through  the  lattice,  and  lay  over  her  soft  and  wistful  melan- 
choly, as  she  read  of  hardship,  and  dust,  and  blood  and  death, 
told  truthfully,  but  always  cheerfully,  as  a  soldier  tells  a  thing 
to  a  woman  he  loves  and  wishes  to  be  sincere  with. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  291 

Dion  was  not  in  the  peace.  Dear  Rosamund!  Did  she 
quite  realize  ?  And  then  Beattie  pulled  herself  up.  A  disloyal 
thought  surely  leaves  a  stain  on  the  mind  through  which  it 
passes.  Beattie  did  not  want  to  have  a  stain  on  her  mind.  She 
cared  for  it  as  a  delicately  refined  woman  cares  for  her  body, 
bathing  it  every  day. 

She  put  Dion's  letter  down. 

That  evening  Rosamund  sang  at  a  charity  concert  in  the 
City  Hall.  Her  music  was  already  a  legend  in  Welsley  and  the 
neighborhood.  Mr.  Dickinson,  who  always  accompanied  her 
singing,  declared  it  emphatically  to  be  "  great."  The  wife  of 
the  Bishop,  Mrs.  Mabberley,  pronounced  the  verdict,  "  She  sings 
with  her  soul  rather  than  with  her  voice,"  without  intention 
of  paying  a  left-handed  compliment.  The  Cathedral  choir  boys 
affirmed  that  "  our  altos  are  a  couple  of  squeaks  beside  her." 
Even  Mrs.  Dickinson,  "  the  cold  douche,"  as  she  was  named 
in  the  Precincts,  had  long  ago  "  come  round  "  about  Mrs.  Dion 
Leith,  and  had  been  heard  to  say  of  her,  "  She's  got  more  than 
a  contralto,  she's  got  a  heart,  and  I  couldn't  say  that  of  some 
women  in  high  positions."  This  was  "  aimed  "  at  the  Dean's 
wife,  Mrs.  Jasper,  who  gave  herself  musical  airs,  and  sometimes 
tried  to  "  interfere  with  the  Precentor's  arrangements,"  which 
meant  falling  foul  of  "  Henry." 

As  Rosamund  looked  down  upon  the  rows  of  friendly  and 
familiar  faces  from  the  platform,  as  she  heard  the  prolonged 
applause  which  greeted  her  before  she  sang,  and  the  cries  of 
"  Encore!  "  which  saluted  her  when  she  finished,  she  felt  that 
she  had  given  her  heart  irrevocably  to  Welsley,  and  the  thought 
came  to  her,  "  How  can  I  leave  it?  "  This  was  cozy,  and  Lon- 
don could  never  be  cozy.  She  could  identify  herself  with  the 
concentrated  life  here,  without  feeling  it  a  burden  upon  her. 
For  she  was  so  much  beloved  that  people  even  respected  her 
privacy,  and  fell  in  with  what  she  called  "  my  absurd  little 
ways."  In  London,  however  many  people  you  knew,  you  saw 
strangers  all  the  time,  strangers  with  hard,  indifferent  eyes  and 
buttoned-up  mouths.  And  one  could  never  say  of  London  "  my 
London." 

When  the  concert  was  over  she  wound  a  veil  about  her 
pale  yellow  hair,  wrapped  a  thin  cloak  round  her  shoulders, 
took  up  her  music  case  and  asked  for  Beattie.  An  eager  boy 
with  a  smiling  round  face,  one  of  the  Cathedral  choristers,  darted 
off  to  find  Mrs.  Daventry,  the  sister  of  "our  Mrs.  Leith"; 
Mr.  Dickinson  gently,  but  decisively,  took  the  music  case  from 


292  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Rosamund's  hand  with  an  "I'll  carry  that  home  for  you"; 
a  thin  man,  like  an  early  primrose  obliged  by  some  inadvertence 
of  spring  to  work  for  its  living,  sidled  up  and  begged  for  the 
name  of  "  your  most  beautiful  and  chaste  second  encore  for 
our  local  paper,  the  'Welsley  Whisperer'  ";  and  Mrs.  Dickin- 
son in  a  pearl  gray  shawl,  with  an  artificial  pink  camellia  care- 
lessly entangled  in  her  marvelously  smooth  mouse-colored  hair, 
appeared  to  tell  Mrs.  Leith  authoritatively  that  "  Madame 
Patey  in  her  heyday  never  sang  '  O  Rest  in  the  Lord  '  as  we  have 
heard  it  sung  to-night." 

Then  Rosamund,  pleasantly  surrounded  by  dear  provincial 
enthusiasts,  made  her  way  to  the  door  where  Beattie,  with  more 
enthusiasts,  was  waiting  for  her;  and  they  all  came  out  into 
the  narrow  High  Street,  and  found  the  September  moon  riding 
above  their  heads  to  give  them  a  greeting  nobly  serene  and 
beneficent,  and  they  set  out  sans  facon,  many  of  them  bare- 
headed, to  walk  home  down  tiny  "  Archbishop's  Lane  "  to  the 
Precincts. 

Rosamund  walked  with  Mr.  Dickinson  on  one  side  of  her 
and  the  Dean  of  Welsley  and  Mrs.  Japer  on  the  other;  Canon 
Wilton,  Beattie,  the  Archdeacon  of  Welsley  and  the  Precentor 
were  just  in  front;  behind  peacefully  streamed  minor  canons 
and  their  wives,  young  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Precincts, 
and  various  privileged  persons  who,  though  not  of  the  hierarchy, 
possessed  small  houses  within  the  sacred  pale.  Only  the 
Bishop  and  his  consort  drove  majestically  home  in  "  Harring- 
ton's Fly." 

What  a  chatter  of  voices  there  was  under  the  projecting  eaves 
of  the  dear  old  houses!  What  happy  laughter  was  wafted  to- 
wards the  smiling  moon !  Mrs.  Dickinson,  presently  "  com- 
ing up  with  "  Rosamund's  party,  became  absolutely  "  waggish  " 
(the  Dean's  expression),  and  made  Rosamund  laugh  with 
that  almost  helpless  spontaneity  which  is  the  greatest  compli- 
ment to  a  joke.  And  then  the  gate  in  the  ancient  archway 
was  opened,  and  they  all  passed  into  their  great  pleasaunce, 
and,  with  a  sensation  of  joyous  proprietorship,  heard  the  gate 
shut  and  locked  behind  them,  and  saw  the  Cathedral  lifting  its 
towers  to  the  moon.  Laughter  was  hushed  then,  and  some 
of  the  voices  were  silent;  feet  went  more  slowly  along  the  edges 
of  the  velvety  lawns;  the  spell  of  ancient  things  which  are  noble, 
and  which  tell  of  the  noble  ideals  of  humanity,  fell  upon  them; 
their  hearts  within  them  were  lifted  up. 

When  the  Dean  bade  good-night  to  Rosamund  he  said : 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  293 

"  Your  music  and  you  mean  a  great  deal  to  Welsley." 

"  Not  half  as  much  as  Welsley  means  to  me,"  she  replied  with 
earnest  sincerity. 

"  We  are  all  looking  forwai  J  to  greeting  your  gallant,  self- 
sacrificing  husband  presently,  very  soon  I  hope.  Good-night  to 
you.  It  has  been" — he  paused,  looked  at  Rosamund  and 
gently  pressed  her  hand, — "  a  most  fragrant  evening." 

A  most  fragrant  evening!  When  Beattie  and  Rosamund 
had  eaten  their  sandwiches,  and  drunk  their  still  lemonade  and 
claret,  and  when  Beattie  had  gone  to  bed,  Rosamund  slipped  out 
alone  into  the  dear  walled  garden,  and  paced  up  and  down  in 
the  moonlight. 

Yes,  there  was  something  fragrant  here,  something  that  in- 
fected the  soul,  something  of  old  faiths  and  old  holy  aspira- 
tions, a  murmur  and  a  perfume  of  trust  and  love.  There  might 
be  gossip,  trickling  jealousies  in  this  little  world,  mean  actions, 
even,  perhaps,  ugly  desires  and  ugly  fulfilments  of  desire. 
Rosamund  scarcely  noticed,  or  did  not  notice,  these  things. 
With  her  people  were  at  their  best.  That  night,  when  Beattie 
was  going  to  bed,  Rosamund  had  said  to  her: 

"  I  can't  think  why  Mrs.  Dickinson  is  called  '  the  cold 
douche.'  I  find  her  so  warm-hearted  and  so  amusing!  " 

And  so  it  was  with  them  all.  Rosamund  had  the  magic  touch 
which  drew  the  best  out  of  every  one  in  Welsley,  because  she  was 
happy  there,  and  sincerely  loved  the  place. 

"How  can  I  leave  Welsley?"  she  thought  now,  as  she 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  garden,  and  heard  presently  the 
chiming  of  midnight  and  the  voice  of  the  watchman  beyond 
the  Dark  Entry.  God  seemed  very  near  to  her  in  Welsley, 
God  and  the  happiness  of  God.  In  Welsley  she  felt,  or  was 
beginning  to  feel,  that  she  was  almost  able  to  combine  two 
lives,  the  life  she  had  grasped  and  the  life  she  had  let  go. 
Here  she  was  a  mother  and  at  moments  she  was  almost  a  re- 
ligious too.  She  played  with  her  boy,  she  trained  him,  watched 
over  his  small  body  and  his  increasing  soul;  and  she  medi- 
tated between  the  enclosing  walls,  listened  to  bells  and  floating 
praises,  to  the  Dresden  Amen,  and  to  the  organ  with  its  many 
voices  all  dedicated  to  the  service  of  God.  Often,  when  she 
walked  alone  in  the  garden,  or  sat  alone  in  some  hidden  corner 
under  the  mossy  walls,  she  felt  like  a  nun  who  had  given  up 
the  world  forever,  and  had  found  the  true  life  in  God.  In  imag- 
ination, then,  she  lived  the  life  of  which  she  had  dreamed  as  a 
girl  before  any  man  had  brought  her  his  love. 


294  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  could  never,  even  in  imagination,  live  that  life  truly, 
without  effort,  in  London.  Welsley  had  made  her  almost  hate 
London.  She  did  not  know  how  she  would  be  able  to  bear  the 
return  to  it.  Yet,  if  Canon  Wilton  were  right  in  what  he  had 
said  to  her  that  afternoon,  Dion  might  come  back  very  soon, 
and  therefore  very  soon  she  might  have  to  leave  Welsley. 

No.  5  Little  Market  Street  once  more;  vaporous  Westmin- 
ster leaning  to  the  dark  river! 

Rosamund  sighed  deeply  as  she  looked  up  again  to  the  tow- 
ers, and  the  moon,  and  turned  to  go  into  Little  Cloisters.  It 
was  difficult  to  shut  out  such  a  night;  it  would  be  more  difficult 
to  give  up  the  long  meditations,  the  dreams  that  came  in  thia 
sweet  retirement  sheltered  by  the  house  of  God. 


Two  days  later,  at  breakfast-time,  Rosamund  received  the 
following  letter,  written  on  paper  scented  with  "  Wood  violet ": 

"HOTEL  PALACE-BY-THE-SEA,  BOURNEMOUTH, 
Thursday 

"MY  DEAR  MRS.  LEITH, —  I  have  received  your  two  —  or 
is  it  three  ?  —  charming  letters  recently  written,  suggesting  a 
renewal  of  the  lease  of  Little  Cloisters  beyond  September.  At 
first  I  hesitated.  The  atmosphere  of  a  Cathedral  town  natu- 
rally attracts  me  and  recalls  sweet  memories  of  the  past.  On 
the  other  hand  the  life  of  a  well-managed  hotel,  such  as  this, 
is  not  without  its  agrements.  Frivolous  it  may  be  (though 
not  light) ;  comfortable  and  restful  it  undoubtedly  is.  The 
against  and  the  for  in  a  nutshell  as  it  were!  Your  last  let- 
ter, in  which  you  dwell  on  the  dampness  inevitable  in  old 
houses,  and  quote  the  Bishop's  opinion,  would,  I  think,  have 
left  me  undisturbed  in  mind  —  I  have  recently  taken  up  the 
'  new  mind '  cult,  which  is,  of  course,  not  antagonistic  to  our 
cherished  Anglican  beliefs  —  had  it  not  happened  to  coincide 
with  more  than  a  touch  of  bronchial  asthma.  The  Bishop 
(quite  between  you  and  me!)  though  a  very  dear  man  and  a 
very  good  Christian,  is  not  a  person  of  great  intellect.  My  hus- 
band would  never  enter  into  controversy  with  him,  as  he  said 
it  was  useless  to  strive  in  argument  with  a  mind  not  sure  of 
its  bearings!  An  opinion  of  the  Bishop's  would  not,  there- 
fore, weigh  much  with  me.  But  there  is  an  element  of  truth 
in  the  contention  as  to  the  damp.  Old  houses  are  damp  at 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  295 

times.  Little  Cloisters,  placed  as  it  is  in  the  shadow  of  the  Ca- 
thedral, doubtless  suffers  in  some  degree  from  this  defect.  My 
doctor  here, —  such  a  clever  man !  —  though  very  reluctant  to 
prevent  me  from  returning  home,  confessed  to-day  that  he 
thought  my  case  needed  careful  watching  by  some  one  who 
knew.  Now  (between  you  and  me),  nobody  knows  in  Wels- 
ley,  and  therefore,  after  weighing  pros  and  cons,  and  under- 
going an  hour  of  mental  treatment  —  merely  the  silent  encour- 
agement and  purification  of  the  will  —  by  an  expert  here,  I 
have  decided  to  remain  for  the  winter.  I  am  willing,  there- 
fore, to  extend  your  lease  for  another  six  months  on  the  terms  as 
before.  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  visit  my  solicitor,  Mr.  Colling- 
wood  of  Cattle  Market  Lane, —  but  you  are  sure  to  know  his 
address !  —  who  will  arrange  everything  legally  with  you. — 
With  my  kindest  regards  and  all  good  wishes,  believe  me,  dear 
Mrs.  Leith,  always  sincerely  yours, 

"  IMOGENE  DUNCAN  BROWNING." 

It  was  Beattie's  last  morning  at  Little  Cloisters;  she  had 
settled  to  go  back  to  De  Lome  Gardens  in  the  afternoon  of  that 
day.  Rosamund  read  Mrs.  Browning's  letter  sitting  opposite 
to  her  sister  at  the  breakfast-table  in  the  small,  paneled  dining- 
room.  At  the  same  time  Beattie  was  reading  a  letter  from  Guy. 
As  she  finished  it  she  looked  up  and  said: 

"  Anything  interesting?  " 

"  What  does  Guy  say?  "  replied  Rosamund.  "  Oh,  here's  a 
letter  from  godfather!  Perhaps  to  say  he's  coming  down." 

Rather  hastily  she  tore  open  another  envelope. 

Later  on  in  the  morning,  when  Beattie  was  doing  mysterious 
things  in  the  garden  with  Robin,  Rosamund  slipped  out  alone 
and  made  her  way  to  Cattle  Market  Lane.  She  came  back  just 
before  lunch,  looking  unusually  preoccupied. 

The  day  after  Beattie  had  returned  to  London,  a  note  from 
Rosamund  told  her  that  the  lease  of  Little  Cloisters  had  been 
renewed  for  another  six  months,  till  the  end  of  March,  1901. 

"  And  if  old  Dion  comes  back  in  the  meanwhile,  as  I  fully 
expect  he  will?"  said  Guy,  when  Beattie  told  him  of  Rosa- 
mund's note. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  possible  to  sublet  a  house,"  said  Beattie, 
looking  unusually  inexpressive,  Guy  thought. 

"  They  say  at  the  Clubs  the  C.  I.  V.  will  be  back  before 
Christmas,  Beattie,"  said  Guy. 

"  The  Tenbys'  lease  of  Number  5  is  up." 


296  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes,  but  do  you  think  Dion  can  afford  to  run  two  houses?  " 

"  Perhaps "  she  stopped. 

"  I  don't  believe  Rosamund  will  ever  be  got  out  of  Welsley," 
said  Guy.  "  And  I'm  pretty  sure  you  agree  with  me." 

"  I  must  go  now,"  said  Beattie  gently.  "  I'm  going  to  Queen 
Anne's  Mansions  to  tell  the  dear  mother  all  about  my  visit  to 
Welsley." 

"When  is  she  going  there?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  She's  very  lazy  about  moving.  She's  not 
been  out  of  London  since  Dion  sailed." 

"  I  think  she's  the  most  delicate  mother-in-law  —  I  don't 
mean  physically  —  who  has  ever  been  born  into  the  world." 

Beattie  looked  down,  and  in  a  moment  went  out  of  the  room 
without  saying  anything  more. 

"  Darling  Beattie,"  murmured  Guy,  looking  after  his  wife. 
"  How  she  bears  her  great  disappointment." 

For  Beattie's  sake  far  more  than  for  his  own  he  longed  to 
have  a  child  in  his  home,  a  child  of  hers  and  his.  But  that 
would  never  be.  And  so  Beattie  gave  all  the  mother-love  that 
was  in  her  to  Robin,  but  much  of  it  secretly.  Guy  knew  that, 
and  believed  he  knew  the  secret  of  her  reticence  even  with  Robin. 
She  loved  Robin,  as  it  were,  from  a  little  distance;  only  his 
mother  must  love  him  cheek  to  cheek,  lips  to  lips,  heart  to  heart, 
and  his  father  as  men  love  the  sons  they  think  of  as  the  bravery 
and  strength  of  the  future. 

But  even  Guy  did  not  know  how  much  his  wife  loved  Robin, 
how  many  buried  hopes  and  dreams  stirred  in  their  graves  when 
Robin  threw  himself  impulsively  into  her  arms  and  confiden- 
tially hung  on  her  neck  and  informed  her  of  the  many  important 
details  of  his  life.  No  man  knows  all  that  a  certain  type  of 
woman  is  able  to  feel  about  a  child. 

When  Rosamund  had  arranged  about  the  renewal  of  the 
lease,  she  tried  to  feel  the  joy  which  was  evidently  felt  by  all 
her  Welsley  friends  —  with  one  exception  which,  however,  she 
either  did  not  notice  or  did  not  seem  to  notice.  They  were 
frankly  delighted  and  enthusiastic  at  the  prospect  of  keeping 
her  among  them.  She  was  very  grateful  for  their  affection, 
so  eagerly  shown,  but  somehow,  although  she  had  signed  her 
name  in  a  solicitor's  office,  and  her  signature  had  been  wit- 
nessed by  a  neat  young  man  with  a  neat  bald  head,  she  did 
not  feel  quite  at  ease.  She  found  herself  looking  at  "  my  Wels- 
ley "  with  the  anxiously  loving  eyes  of  one  who  gathers  in  dear 
details  before  it  is  too  late  for  such  garnering;  she  sat  in  the 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  297 

garden  and  listened  to  the  beloved  sounds  from  the  Cathedral 
with  strained  attention,  like  one  who  sets  memory  at  its  mys- 
terious task. 

The  Dean's  widow  had  yielded  to  the  suggestion  of  inevitable 
dampness  in  old  houses,  but ! 

On  September  28,  towards  evening,  when  Rosamund  was 
in  the  garden  with  Robin,  Annie,  the  parlor-maid,  came  out 
holding  a  salver  on  which  lay  a  telegram.  Rosamund  opened 
it  and  read: 

"  Coming  home. —  DION." 
"  Any  answer,  ma'am?  " 


"  Is  there  any  answer,  ma'am?  Shall  I  tell  the  boy  to 
wait?" 

"  What  did  you  say,  Annie  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  the  boy  to  wait,  ma'am?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Annie.     There's  no  answer." 

Annie  turned  and  recrossed  the  garden,  looking  careful,  as 
if  she  were  thinking  of  her  cap,  round  which  the  airs  were 
blowing. 

Rosamund  sat  for  a  few  minutes  almost  motionless,  with 
the  slip  of  paper  lying  in  her  lap;  then  the  breeze  came  lightly, 
as  if  curious,  and  blew  it  away.  Robin  saw  it  and  ran. 

"  I'll  catch  it,  mummie.     You  see!     I'll  catch  it!  " 

The  little  brown  legs  were  amazingly  swift,  but  the  telegram 
was  elusive  because  the  breeze  was  naughty.  When  Robin 
ran  up  to  his  mother  holding  it  out  he  was  almost  breathless. 

"  Here  it  is,  mummie." 

His  blue  eyes  and  his  voice  held  triumph. 

"I  said  I  would,  and  I  did!" 

Rosamund  put  her  arm  round  him. 

"  Who  do  you  think  sent  this?  " 

"  I  dunno." 

"  Daddy  sent  it." 

Robin's  eyes  became  round. 

"Daddy!     What  for?" 

"  To  tell  us  he's  coming  home." 

A  deeply  serious  expression  came  to  Robin's  face. 

"  Have  I  growed  much  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  great  deal." 


298  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Will  daddy  see  it?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  he  will  directly  he  comes." 

Robin  seemed  relieved. 

"  Is  daddy  coming  here  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  goin'  to  live  here  with  us  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see  about  all  that  when  he  comes." 

Annie,  evidently  still  thinking  about  her  cap,  reappeared 
on  the  garden  path. 

"  The  Dean  to  see  you,  ma'am." 

Rosamund  got  up,  gave  Robin  a  long  kiss  on  the  freckles 
and  said: 

"  Robin,  I  believe  the  Dean  has  come  about  Mr.  Thrush." 

"  Does  he  know  Mr.  Thrush?  " 

"  Not  yet.     I'll  tell  you  something  presently." 

And  she  went  slowly  into  the  house.  Was  a  scheme  of  hers 

coming  to  fruition  just  when ?  She  tried  to  close  her  mind 

to  an  approaching  thought. 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  the  7th  of  October  the  C.I.V.  sailed  from  South 
Africa  for  England;  on  the  19th  of  October  they 
made  St.  Vincent;  on  the  23rd  Dion  again  looked 
over  the  sea  at  the  dreaming  hills  of  Madeira.  The  sight  of 
these  hills  made  him  realize  the  change  brought  about  in  him 
by  the  work  he  had  done  in  South  Africa.  As  he  gazed  at 
them  he  suddenly  and  sharply  remembered  the  man  who  had 
gazed  at  them  nine  months  before,  a  man  who  was  gathering 
together  determination,  who  was  silently  making  preparations 
for  progress,  or  for  what  he  thought  of  as  progress.  Those 
hills  then  had  seemed  to  be  calling  to  him  out  of  the  mists  of 
heat,  and  to  himself  he  had  seemed  to  be  defying  them,  to  be 
thrusting  their  voices  from  him.  For  were  they  not  the  hills 
of  a  land  where  the  lotus  bloomed,  where  a  weariness  bred  of 
stagnant  delights  wrapped  men  in  a  garment  of  Nessus,  steeped 
in  a  subtle  poison  which  drew  from  them  all  their  energies, 
which  brought  them  not  pain  but  an  inertia  more  deadly  to 
the  soul  than  pain?  Now  they  had  no  power  over  him.  He 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  299 

did  not  need  to  defy  them,  because  he  had  gained  in  strength. 
Ere  they  vanished  from  his  eyes  over  the  sea  he  remembered 
another  Island  rising  out  of  waters  that  gleamed  with  gold. 
How  far  off  now  seemed  to  him  that  evening  when  he  had 
looked  on  it  as  he  traveled  to  Greece!  How  much  he  had  left 
behind  on  the  way  of  his  life! 

The  experience  of  separation  and  of  war  had  not  aged  him, 
but  it  had  made  him  feel  older.  Nothing  of  the  boy  was  left 
in  him.  He  felt  himself  of  manhood  all  compact.  He  had 
seen  men  die,  had  seen  how  they  were  able  to  die,  how  they  met 
severe  physical  suffering;  he  had  silently  tried  to  prepare  himself 
for  death,  keeping  a  cheerful  countenance;  he  had  known,  like 
most  brave  men,  the  cold  companionship  of  fear,  and  he  had 
got  rid  of  that  companionship.  Knowing  death  better,  he  knew 
life  much  better  than  when  he  had  left  England. 

On  the  voyage  out  he  had  looked  at  the  hills  of  Madeira 
with  Worthington.  Now  Worthington  was  not  with  him;  he 
had  died  of  enteric  at  Pretoria  in  September.  Dion  was  carry- 
ing back  to  England  Worthington's  last  written  message  to  his 
people.  He  was  carrying  also  another  letter  written  by  an 
English  officer,  whose  body  lay  in  the  earth  of  Africa,  to  a 
woman  at  home.  On  the  voyage  Dion  often  thought  of  that 
dead  man  and  of  the  living  woman  to  whom  he  would  presently 
give  the  letter.  He  had  promised  to  deliver  it  personally. 

At  St.  Vincent  he  had  received  a  welcome  by  cable  from 
Rosamund,  and  had  sent  a  cable  to  her  asking  not  to  be  met. 
He  wished  to  meet  her  in  her  home  at  Welsley.  She  had 
written  to  him  enthusiastic  accounts  of  its  peace  and  beauty. 
Her  pen  had  been  tipped  with  love  of  it.  Their  first  meeting, 
their  reunion,  must  take  place  there  in  the  midst  of  that 
wonderful  peace  of  green  England  which  she  loved  so  much. 
After  the  heat  and  the  dust  and  the  pain  of  South  Africa  that 
would  surely  be  very  good. 

Their  reunion! 

Dion  had  escaped  death.  He  had  been  allowed  to  return 
to  Rosamund  in  splendid  health,  without  a  wound,  though  he 
had  been  in  battle.  He  had  a  strong  presentiment  that  he  was 
allowed  to  return  for  some  definite  purpose.  Could  he  not  now 
be  of  far  more  use  to  his  little  son  than  if  he  had  never  volun- 
teered for  active  service?  Rosamund  and  he  had  looked  up 
together  at  the  columns  of  the  Parthenon  and  had  thought  of 
the  child  who  might  come.  Dion  felt  that  he  understood  the 
Parthenon  better  now  that  he  had  looked  death  in  the  face, 


300  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

now  that  he  had  been  ready  to  give  up  his  life  if  it  had  been 
required  of  him.  He  even  had  a  whimsical  feeling  —  he  smiled 
at  it  seriously  to  himself  —  that  the  Parthenon,  if  he  again 
stood  before  it,  would  understand  him  better.  He  was  not 
proud  of  himself  for  what  he  had  done.  But  in  the  depths  of 
him  he  often  felt  earnestly  glad,  almost  thankful,  that  he  had 
been  able  to  do  it.  The  doing  of  it  had  brought  a  new  zest  into 
life,  new  meanings,  a  new  outlook.  He  seemed  to  feel  life  like 
something  precious  in  his  hand  now;  he  had  not  felt  it  so  before, 
even  when  he  had  won  Rosamund  and  had  been  with  her  in 
Greece. 


The  hills  of  Madeira  faded.  Three  days  later  there  was 
a  burial  at  sea  in  the  early  morning.  A  private,  who  had 
been  ill  with  enteric,  had  died  in  the  night.  The  body  sank 
into  the  depths,  the  ship  went  on  her  way  and  ran  into  a  stiff 
gale.  Already  England  was  rousing  herself  to  welcome  her 
returning  sons,  bruskly  but  lustily,  in  her  way,  which  was 
not  South  Africa's  way.  Dion  loved  that  gale  though  it  kept 
him  awake  all  night. 

Next  morning  they  were  off  the  Start,  and  heard  the  voices 
of  the  sirens  bidding  them  good  day. 


On  the  last  day  of  October,  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  Rosamund  was  waiting  for  Dion.  He  was  due  by 
the  express  which,  when  up  to  time,  reached  Welsley  Station 
at  3.55.  She  would  naturally  have  been  at  the  station  to  meet 
him  if  she  had  not  received  a  telegram  from  him  begging  her 
to  stay  at  home. 

"  Would  much  rather  meet  you  first  in  Little  Cloisters, — 
Dion,"  were  the  last  words  of  the  telegram. 

So  Rosamund  had  stayed  at  home. 

It  was  a  peculiarly  still  autumn  afternoon.  A  suggestion 
—  it  was  scarcely  more  than  that  —  of  mist  made  the  Precincts 
look  delicately  sad,  but  not  to  the  eyes  of  Rosamund.  She 
delighted  in  this  season  of  tawny  colors  and  of  fluttering  leaves, 
of  nature's  wide-eyed  and  contemplative  muteness.  The  beauty 
of  autumn  appealed  to  her  because  she  possessed  a  happy  spirit, 
and  was  not  too  imaginative.  She  had  imagination,  but  it 
was  not  of  the  intensely  sensitive  and  poetic  kind  which  dies 
with  the  dying  leaves,  and  in  the  mists  loses  all  the  hopes  that 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  301 

were  born  with  the  birth  of  summer.  The  strong  sanity  which 
marked  her,  and  which  had  always  kept  her  in  central  paths, 
far  away  from  the  byways  in  which  the  neurotic,  the  decadent, 
the  searchers  after  the  so-called  "  new  "  things  loved  to  tread, 
led  her  to  welcome  each  season  in  its  turn,  and  to  rejoice  in  its 
special  characteristics. 

So  she  loved  the  cloistral  feeling  autumn  brought  with  it 
to  Welsley.  Green  summer  seemed  to  open  the  doors,  and 
one  rejoiced  in  a  golden  freedom;  tawny  autumn  seemed  softly 
to  close  the  doors,  and  one  was  happy  in  a  sensation  of  being 
tenderly  guarded,  of  being  kept  very  safe  in  charge  for  the 
coming  winter  with  its  fires,  and  its  cosy  joys  of  the  interior. 

Another  reason  which  made  Rosamund  care  very  much  for 
the  autumn  was  this:  in  the  autumn  the  religious  atmosphere 
which  hung  about  the  Precincts  of  Welsley  seemed  to  her  to 
become  more  definite,  more  touching;  the  ancient  things  more 
living  and  powerful  in  their  message. 

"  Welsley  always  sends  out  influences,"  she  had  once  said 
to  Father  Robertson.  "  But  in  certain  autumn  days  it  speaks. 
I  hear  its  voice  in  the  autumn." 

She  heard  its  voice  now  as  she  waited  for  Dion. 

The  lattice  window  which  gave  on  to  the  garden  was  partly 
open;  there  was  a  fire  in  the  wide,  old-fashioned  grate;  vases 
holding  chrysanthemums  stood  on  the  high  wooden  mantelpiece 
and  on  the  writing-table;  the  low  tea-table  had  been  placed 
by  Annie  near  the  hearth. 

Rosamund  listened  to  the  cloistral  silence,  and  looked  at 
two  deep,  old-fashioned  arm-chairs  which  were  drawn  up  by 
the  tea-table. 

Just  how  much  had  she  missed  Dion? 

That  question  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  her  mind  as  she 
looked  at  the  two  arm-chairs. 

The  first  time  she  had  been  in  Little  Cloisters  she  had  spoken 
to  Canon  Wilton  of  Dion,  had  wondered  if  he  would  come 
back  from  South  Africa  altered;  and  she  had  said  that  if  she 
came  to  live  in  it  Welsley  might  alter  her.  Canon  Wilton 
had  made  no  comment  on  her  remark.  She  had  scarcely 
noticed  that  at  the  time,  perhaps  had  not  consciously  noticed 
it;  but  her  subconscious  mind  had  recorded  the  fact,  and  she 
recalled  it  now. 

Welsley,  she  thought,  had  changed  her  a  good  deal.  She 
was  not  a  self-conscious  woman  as  a  rule,  but  to-day  was  not 
like  other  days,  and  she  was  not  quite  like  herself  on  other 


302  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

days.  Perhaps,  for  once,  she  was  what  women  often  call 
"strung  up";  certainly  she  felt  peculiarly  alive  —  alive  spe- 
cially in  the  nerves  of  her  body. 

Those  two  arm-chairs  were  talking  to  her;  they  were  telling 
her  of  the  imminent  renewal  of  the  life  closely  companioned, 
watched  over,  protected,  beloved.  They  were  telling,  and  they 
were  asking,  too.  She  felt  absurdly  that  it  was  they  who  were 
asking  her  how  much  she  had  missed  Dion. 

It  would  be  good  to  have  him  back,  but  she  now  suddenly 
realized,  in  a  self-conscious  way,  that  she  had  managed  to  be 
very  happy  without  him.  But  then  she  had  always  looked 
forward  to  his  eventual  return.  Suppose  he  had  not  come  back  ? 

She  got  up  restlessly,  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
into  the  garden.  Robin  was  not  there,  nor  was  he  in  the  house. 
Obedient  to  an  impulse  which  she  had  not  understood  at  the 
time,  Rosamund  had  arranged  a  small,  and  rather  odd,  festivity 
for  him  which  had  taken  him  away  from  home,  and  would 
keep  him  out  till  five  o'clock:  he  was  having  tea  in  a  cake-shop 
near  the  top  of  Welsley  High  Street  with  his  nurse  and  Mr. 
Thrush,  who,  not  unexpectedly,  had  arrived  in  Welsley.  The 
first  meeting  between  his  father  and  mother  would  not  be  com- 
plicated by  his  eager  young  presence. 

So  the  garden  was  empty  to-day.  Not  even  the  big  young 
gardener  was  to  be  seen ;  he  only  came  on  four  days  in  the  week, 
and  this  was  not  one  of  them.  As  Rosamund  looked  down 
into  the  garden,  she  loved  its  loneliness,  its  misty,  autumnal 
aspect.  It  was  surely  not  her  fault  if  she  had  a  natural  affec- 
tion for  solitude  —  not  for  the  hideous  solitude  of  a  childless 
mother,  but  for  the  frequent  privacy  of  a  mother  who  was  alone, 
but  who  knew  that  her  child  was  near,  playing  perhaps,  or  gone 
for  a  little  jaunt  with  his  faithful  nurse,  or  sleeping  upstairs. 

As  she  looked  at  the  garden  a  faint  creeping  sense  of  some- 
thing almost  like  fear  came  to  her.  Since  Dion  had  been 
away  she  had  surely  altered,  because  she  had  had  a  new  expe- 
rience; she  had,  as  it  were,  touched  the  confines  of  that  life 
which  she  had  deliberately  renounced  when  she  had  married. 

It  seemed  to  her,  as  she  stood  there  and  remembered  her 
long  meditations  in  that  enclosed  and  ancient  garden,  that 
in  these  months  she  had  drawn  much  nearer  to  God,  and  — 
could  it  be  because  of  that  ?  —  perhaps  had  receded  a  little 
from  her  husband. 

The  sense  of  uneasiness  —  she  could  not  call  it  fear  — 
deepened  in  her.  Was  the  receding  then  implicit  in  the  draw- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  303 

ing  near?  She  began  to  feel  almost  confused.  She  put  up 
a  hand  to  her  face;  her  cheek  was  hot. 

The  clock  in  the  room  struck  four;  two  minutes  later  the 
chimes  sounded,  and  then  Big  John  announced  the  hour. 

Dion  might  arrive  at  any  moment  now.  She  turned  away 
rather  quickly  from  the  window.  She  hated  the  unusual  feeling 
of  self -consciousness  which  had  come  to  her. 

At  ten  minutes  past  four  the  door  bell  rang.  It  must  be  he. 
She  went  to  the  drawing-room  door,  opened  it  and  listened. 
She  heard  a  man's  voice  and  a  bump;  then  another  bump,  a 
creaking,  a  sort  of  scraping,  and  the  voice  once  more  saying, 
"  I'll  manage,  miss." 

It  was  Dion's  luggage.  Harrington's  man  explained  that 
the  gentleman  had  said  he  would  walk  to  Little  Cloisters. 

Rosamund  went  back  into  the  drawing-room  and  shut  the 
door.  Now  that  Dion's  luggage  was  actually  in  the  house 
everything  seemed  curiously  different.  A  period  was  definitely 
over;  her  loneliness  with  Robin  in  Little  Cloisters  was  at  an 
end.  She  sat  down  in  one  of  the  two  arm-chairs  by  the  tea- 
table,  clasped  her  hands  together  and  looked  at  the  fire. 

If  she  had  held  to  her  girlish  idea?  If  she  had  become 
a  "  Sister  "  ?  But  —  she  shook  her  head  as  she  sat  there  alone 

—  Robin!     And  then  she  sighed;  she  had  not  thought,  "But 

—  Dion !  "     She  was  almost  angry  with  herself  for  being  so 
introspective,  so  mentally  observant  of  herself.     All  this  was 
surely  unnatural  in  her.     Was  she  going  to  become  morbid  — 
she  who  had  such  a  hatred  of  morbidity?     She  tried  to  force 
herself  to  feel  that  she  had  missed  Dion  tremendously,  that 
his  return  would  make  things  right  in  Little  Cloisters. 

But  had  they  ever  been  wrong  ?  And,  besides,  Little  Cloisters 
would  almost  immediately  be  only  a  dear  memory  of  the  past. 

Rosamund  began  almost  to  hate  herself.  Was  she  capable 
of  any  sort  of  treachery?  Swiftly  she  began  to  dwell  upon 
all  the  dear  goodness  of  Dion,  upon  his  love,  his  admiration, 
his  perpetual  thoughtfulness,  his  unselfishness,  his  straight 
purity,  his  chivalry,  his  unceasing  devotion.  He  was  a  man 
to  trust  implicitly.  That  was  enough.  She  trusted  him  and 
loved  him.  She  thanked  God  that  he  was  back  in  England. 
She  had  missed  him  more,  much  more  than  she  had  realized; 
she  was  quite  sure  of  that  now  that  she  had  recalled  things. 
One  happiness  is  apt  to  oust  the  acute  memory  of  another. 
That  had  (quite  naturally)  happened  in  her  case.  It  would 
indeed  have  been  strange  if,  living  in  such  a  dear  place  as 


304  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  My  Welsley,"  with  Robin  the  precious  one,  she  had  been 
a  miserable  woman !  And  she  had  always  known  —  as  women 
know  things  they  do  not  know  —  that  Dion  would  come  back 
after  behaving  nobly.  And  that  was  exactly  what  had 
happened. 

She  looked  at  the  arm-chair  opposite. 

How  splendid  it  would  be  to  see  dear,  brave,  good,  faithful 
Dion  sitting  in  it  in  a  moment,  safe  after  all  his  hardships  and 
dangers,  comfortable,  able  to  rest  at  last  in  his  own  home. 

For  Little  Cloisters  would  be  his  home  even  if  only  for  a  few 

days.  And  then What  about  Mr.  Thrush?  What 

about  —  oh,  so  many  things  ? 

"  I'll  find  the  way  all  right,"  Dion  had  said  at  the  station, 
after  he  had  been  assured  that  it  was  only  ten  minutes'  walk, 
"  or  so,"  to  Little  Cloisters. 

The  little  walk  would  be  a  preparation  for  the  very  great 
event.  He  only  knew  how  great  it  was  when  he  got  out  at  the 
Welsley  Station. 

He  had  never  seen  Welsley  before,  though  its  fame  had  been 
familiar  to  him  from  childhood.  Thousands  of  pilgrims  had 
piously  visited  it,  coming  from  afar;  now  yet  another  pilgrim 
had  come  from  afar,  sensitively  eager  to  approach  a  shrine 
which  held  something  desired  by  his  soul. 

That  part  of  the  city  which  immediately  surrounded  the 
station  was  not  attractive,  but  very  soon  Dion  came  into  a 
narrow  street  and  was  aware  of  an  ancient  flavor,  wholly 
English,  and  only  to  be  savored  thoroughly-  by  an  English 
palate.  In  this  street  he  began  to  taste  England.  He  passed 
an  old  curiosity  shop,  black  and  white,  with  a  projecting  upper 
storey,  lattice  windows  with  tiny  panes,  a  door  of  black  oak 
upon  which  many  people  had  carved  their  names.  By  the  door 
stood  a  spinning-wheel.  In  the  window  were  a  tea  service  of 
spode  and  a  collection  of  luster  ware.  There  were  also  some 
Toby  jugs. 

Dion  went  in  quickly  and  bought  one  for  Robin.  He  carried 
it  unwrapped  in  his  hand  as  he  walked  on.  One  could  do  that 
here,  in  this  intimate,  cozy  old  town  of  dear  England.  He 
enjoyed  the  light  mist,  the  moisture  in  the  air.  He  had  come 
to  hate  aridity  and  the  acrid  dryness  of  dust  blown  by  hot 
winds  across  great  spaces.  The  moisture  caressed  his  skin, 
burnt  almost  to  the  color  of  copper  by  the  African  sun. 

He  came  into  the  High  Street.  On  its  farther  side,  straight 
in  front  of  him,  the  narrowest  street  he  had  ever  seen,  a  rivulet 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  305 

of  a  street,  with  leaning  houses  which  nearly  formed  an  arcade, 
stretched  to  a  wonderful  gray  gateway,  immensely  massive,  with 
towers  at  its  corners,  and  rows  of  shields  above  its  beetling 
archway. 

This  must  be  the  entrance  to  the  Precincts. 

In  the  tiny  street  he  met  a  verger  in  mufti,  an  old  bent  man, 
with  a  chin-beard  and  knotty  hands,  English  in  every  vein,  in 
every  sinew  of  his  amazingly  respectable  and  venerable  body. 
This  worthy  he  stopped,  and  inquired  of  him  the  way  to  Little 
Cloisters. 

"Where  Mrs.  Leith  and  her  boy  lives,  sir?"  mouthed  the 
old  man,  with  a  kindly  gaping  smile. 

"  That's  it." 

"  She's  a  nice  lady,"  said  the  verger.  "  We  think  a  lot  of 
her  here,  especially  we  Cathedral  folk." 

He  went  on  to  explain  elaborately  where  Little  Cloisters  was, 
and  to  describe  minutely  two  routes,  by  either  of  which  it  might 
be  come  at.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  one  of  those  who 
love  to  listen  to  themselves  and  who  take  a  pride  in  words. 

Dion  decided  for  the  route  "  round  at  the  back  "  by  Chantrey 
Lane,  through  the  Green  Court,  leaving  the  Deanery  on  the 
left  and  the  Bishop's  Palace  on  the  right,  and  so  by  way  of  the 
Prior's  Gate  and  the  ruins  of  the  Infirmary  through  the  Dark 
Entry  to  Little  Cloisters. 

"  You  can't  miss  it.  The  name's  writ  on  the  door  in  the 
wall,  and  a  rare  old  wall  it  is,"  said  the  venerable  man. 

Dion  thanked  him  warmly  and  walked  on,  while  the  verger 
looked  after  him. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that's  Mrs.  Leith's  husband  home 
from  the  war,"  he  murmured.  "  Looks  as  if  he'd  been  fighting, 
he  does,  and  burnt  pretty  near  to  a  cinder  by  something,  the 
sun  as  like  as  not." 

And  he  walked  on  down  the  tiny  street  towards  the  muffin 
which  awaited  him  at  home,  well  pleased  with  his  perspicuity, 
and  making  mental  preparations  for  the  astonishing  of  his 
wife  with  a  titbit  of  news. 

Dion  came  into  the  Green  Court,  and  immediately  felt 
Welsley,  felt  it  in  the  depths  of  him,  and  understood  Rosa- 
mund's love  of  it  so  often  expressed  in  her  letters.  As  he 
looked  at  the  moist  green  lawn  in  the  center,  at  the  gray  and 
brown  houses  which  fronted  it,  at  the  Deanery  garden  full  of 
the  ruddy  flowers  of  autumn  behind  the  iron  railings,  at  the 
immense  Cathedral  with  its  massive  and  yet  almost  tenderly 


306  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

graceful  towers,  a  history  in  stone  of  the  faithful  work  and 
the  progress  of  men,  he  knew  why  Rosamund  had  come  to  live 
here.  He  stood  still.  In  the  misty  air  he  heard  the  voices 
of  the  rooks.  The  door  of  a  Canon's  house  opened,  and  two 
clergymen,  one  of  them  in  gaiters  and  a  shovel  hat,  came  out, 
and  walked  slowly  away  in  earnest  conversation.  Bells 
sounded  in  one  of  the  towers. 

He  understood.  Here  was  a  sort  of  essence  of  ecclesiasticism. 
It  seemed  to  penetrate  the  whole  atmosphere.  Rosamund  was 
at  home  in  it. 

He  remembered  his  terrible  thought  that  God  had  always 
stood  between  his  wife  and  him,  dividing  them. 

How  would  it  be  now? 

Again  he  looked  up  at  the  great  house  of  God,  and  he  felt 
almost  afraid.  But  he  was  not  the  man  he  had  been  when 
he  said  good-by  to  Rosamund;  he  had  gained  in  force  of 
character,  and  he  knew  it.  Surely  out  there  in  South  Africa 
he  had  done  what  his  mother  had  wanted  him  to  do,  he  had 
laid  hold  of  his  best  possibilities.  At  any  rate,  he  had  sin- 
cerely tried  to  do  that.  Why,  then,  should  he  be  afraid  — 
and  of  God? 

He  walked  on  quickly,  and  came  to  Little  Cloisters  by  way 
of  the  Dark  Entry. 

It  was  very  dark  that  day,  for  the  autumn  evening  was 
already  making  its  moist  presence  felt,  and  there  was  a  breath- 
ing of  cold  from  the  old  gray  stones  which  looked  like  the 
fangs  of  Time. 

Dion  shook  his  broad  shoulders  in  an  irresistible  shiver  as 
he  came  out  into  the  passage-way  between  Rosamund's  garden 
wall  and  the  ruined  cloisters,  immediately  beyond  which  rose 
the  east  end  of  the  Cathedral.  South  Africa  had  evidently 
made  him  sensitive  to  the  dampness  and  cold  of  England. 

"  Little  Cloisters."  The  white  words  showed  on  a  tall  green 
door  let  into  the  wall  on  his  left;  and,  as  the  verger  had  said, 
it  was  a  rare  old  wall.  So  here  it  actually  was!  He  was  at 
home.  His  heart  thumped  as  he  pulled  at  the  bell,  and  uncon- 
sciously he  gripped  the  Toby  jug  hard  with  his  other  hand. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  307 


CHAPTER  VI 

DION!     Is  it  you  at  last?" 
A  warm  voice  called  from  above,  and  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  temples. 

"  Yes." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  took  the  old  staircase  in  his  stride, 
and  he  had  a  feeling  almost  such  as  a  man  has  when  he  is 
going  into  action. 

"Rose!" 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  It's  —  seemed  a  long  time!  " 

He  felt  moisture  springing  to  his  eyes.  The  love  he  felt  foi 
her  almost  overwhelmed  his  self-control.  Till  this  moment  he 
had  never  known  how  great  it  was.  All  his  deprivation  was 
in  that  embrace. 

"  Years  it's  seemed !  "  he  said,  letting  her  go  with  a  little 
laugh,  summoned  up  —  he  did  not  know  how  —  to  save  him 
from  too  much  emotion. 

She  gazed  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Dion,  how  you  have  altered!  " 

"Have  I?" 

"  Tremendously." 

How  well  he  knew  the  kindly  glance  of  her  honest  brown 
eyes;  a  thousand  times  he  had  called  it  up  before  him  in  South 
Africa.  But  this  was  not  the  glance  so  characteristic  of  her. 
In  the  firelit  room  her  eyes  looked  puzzled,  almost  wide,  with 
a  sort  of  startled  astonishment. 

"  You  had  a  lot  of  the  boy  in  you  still  when  you  went  away. 
At  least,  I  used  to  think  so." 

"Haven't  I  any  left?" 

"  I  can't  see  any.  No,  I  think  you've  come  back  all  man. 
And  how  tremendously  burnt  you  are." 

"  Almost  black,  I  suppose.     But  I'm  so  accustomed  to  it." 

"  It's  right,"  she  said.  "  Your  face  tells  the  story  of  what 
you've  done.  Robin  " —  she  paused,  then  slowly  she  said  — 
"  Robin's  got  almost  a  new  father." 

"  Where  is  he?     He's  sure  to  have  altered  more  than  I  have." 

"  Oh  no.  He'll  be  in  about  five.  I've  sent  him  out  to  tea 
with  some  one  you  know." 

"With  whom?" 


308  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Mr.  Thrush." 

"Mr.  Thrush  at  Welsley?  " 

"  Yes.  I'll  explain  all  that  presently.  I  thought  I'd  have 
you  all  to  myself  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  Robin  should  have 
his  turn.  Here  comes  Annie." 

When  the  two  arm-chairs  were  occupied,  Dion  said: 

"And  you,  Rosamund?" 

"What  about  me?" 

"Haven't  you  altered?" 

"  If  I  have,  probably  you  would  know  it  and  I  shouldn't." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  that's  true.  You  aren't  conscious  of  it, 
then?" 

But  she  was  giving  him  his  tea,  and  that  took  her  mind 
away  from  his  question,  no  doubt.  He  felt  a  change  in  her, 
but  it  was  not  almost  fiercely  marked  like  the  change  in  him, 
on  whom  a  Continent  had  written  with  its  sun  and  its  wind, 
and  with  its  battlefields.  The  body  of  a  man  was  graven  by 
such  a  superscription.  And  no  doubt  even  a  child  could  read 
something  of  it.  But  the  writing  on  Rosamund  was  much 
fainter,  was  far  less  easy  to  decipher;  it  was  perhaps  traced 
on  the  soul  rather  than  on  the  body.  The  new  legend  of  Dion 
was  perhaps  an  assertion.  But  this  story  of  Rosamund,  what 
was  it?  She  saw  the  man  in  Dion,  lean,  burnt,  strong,  ardent, 
desirous,  full  of  suppressed  emotion  that  was  warmly  and  in- 
tensely human;  he  saw  in  her,  as  well  as  the  mother,  something 
that  was  perhaps  almost  pale,  almost  elusive,  like  the  still 
figure  and  downbent  face  of  a  recluse  seen  in  passing  an  open 
window. 

She  saw  in  Dion  his  actions;  he  saw  in  her  her  meditations. 
Perhaps  that  was  it.  All  this  time  he  had  been  living  inces- 
santly in  the  midst  of  men,  never  alone,  nearly  always  busy, 
often  fiercely  active,  marching,  eating,  sleeping  in  company. 
And  all  the  time  she  had  been  here,  in  the  midst  of  this  clois- 
tral silence,  and  perhaps  often  alone. 

"  You  know  everybody  here,  I  suppose?  "  he  asked,  drinking 
his  tea  with  relish,  and  eating  the  toast  which  seemed  to  him 
crisply  English,  but  always  faintly  aware  of  that  still  figure 
and  of  that  downbent  face. 

"  Almost  everybody.  I've  sung  a  great  deal,  and  got  to 
know  them  all  partly  through  that.  And  they're  dear  people 
most  of  them.  They  let  one  alone  when  they  know  one  wants 
to  be  alone." 

"  And  I  expect  you  can  enjoy  being  alone  here." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  309 

"  Yes,"  she  said  simply.  "  At  times.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  feel  lonely,  in  the  miserable,  dreadful  way,  I  mean,  in  the 
Precincts.  We  are  rather  like  a  big  family  here,  each  one  with 
his,  or  her,  own  private  room  in  the  big  family  house." 

"  I  know  you've  always  loved  a  certain  amount  of  solitude, 
Rose,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  D'you  remember  that  day  in  Lon- 
don when  I  burst  in  upon  your  solitude  with  Dante,  and  was 
actually  jealous  of  the  '  Paradiso  '  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  But  you  forgave  me,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here  now." 

He  gave  her  his  cup  for  some  more  tea. 

"  You  can't  imagine  how  absolutely  wonderful  it  is  to  me  to 
be  here  after  what  I've  been  through." 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  but  he  still  looked  tremendously 
alert,  wiry,  powerful  even. 

Dion  was  much  more  impressive  than  he  had  been  when 
he  went  away.  Rosamund  felt  a  faint  creeping  of  something 
that  was  almost  like  shyness  in  her  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  After  Green  Point  Camp  and  Orange  River  —  I  shall  never 
forget  the  dust-storm  we  had  there !  —  and  Springfontein  and 
Kaffir  River  —  oh,  the  heat  there,  Rose!  —  and  Kaalfontein, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  It  was  near  Kaalfontein  that  we  first 
came  under  fire.  I  shan't  forget  that." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  looked  at  him  across  the 
tea-table.  All  that  he  knew  and  she  did  not  know  now  made 
him  seem  rather  strange  to  her.  The  uniting  of  two  different, 
utterly  different,  experiences  of  life,  was  more  tremendous, 
more  full  of  meaning  and  of  mystery,  than  the  uniting  of  two 
bodies.  This,  then,  was  to  be  a  second  wedding-day  for  her 
and  for  Dion?  All  their  letters,  in  which,  of  course,  they  had 
tried  to  tell  each  other  something  of  their  differing  experiences, 
had  really  told  very  little,  almost  nothing.  Dion's  glance  told 
her  more  than  all  his  letters,  that  and  his  color,  and  certain 
lines  in  his  face,  and  the  altered  shapes  of  his  hands,  and  his 
way  of  holding  himself,  and  his  way  of  speaking.  Even  his 
voice  was  different.  He  was  an  unconscious  record  of  what 
he  had  been  through  out  there;  and  much  of  it,  she  felt  sure, 
he  would  never  tell  to  her  except  unconsciously  by  being  a 
different  Dion  from  the  Dion  who  had  gone  away. 

"  How  little  one  can  tell  in  letters,"  she  said.  "  Scarcely 
anything." 

"  You  made  me  feel  Welsley  in  yours." 

"  Did  I  ?     Why  did  you  walk  from  the  station  ?  " 


310  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  wanted  to  taste  your  home,  to  get  into  your  atmosphere, 
if  I  could,  before  seeing  you.  Rose,  love  can  make  a  man 
almost  afraid  at  times." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  his  dark  eyes  burned  with  fires  they 
had  captured  in  South  Africa.  Sitting  in  the  old  room,  with 
its  homely  and  ecclesiastical  look,  he  had  an  oddly  remote 
appearance,  she  thought,  as  if  he  belonged  to  a  very  different 
milieu.  Always  dark,  he  now  looked  almost  gipsy-like;  yet 
he  had  the  unmistakable  air  of  a  soldier.  But  if  there  had 
ever  been  anything  there  was  now  nothing  left  of  the  business 
man  in  Dion. 

"Won't  you  find  it  very  difficult  to  settle  down  again  to 
the  life  in  Austin  Friars,  Dion  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Perhaps  I  should,  but  for  one  thing." 

"What's  that?" 

"  You  and  Robin  at  home  when  the  drudgery  is  done." 

Rosamund  saw  Welsley  receding  from  her  into  darkness, 
with  its  familiar  faces  and  voices,  its  gray  towers,  its  cloisters, 
its  bells,  the  Dresden  Amen,  the  secret  garden,  the  dreams  she 
had  had  in  the  garden. 

"Number  5  is  all  ready  to  go  into.  It  was  lucky  we  only 
let  it  for  six  months,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Uncle  Biron  has  given  me  a  fortnight's  holiday,  or  rather 
gladly  agreed  to  my  taking  it.  Of  course  I'm  my  own  master 
in  a  way,  being  a  partner,  but  I  want  to  consider  him.  He 
was  awfully  good  about  my  going  away.  Mother's  looking 
well.  She  was  at  our  Thanksgiving  Service;  Beattie  and  Guy 
too.  I've  had  just  a  glimpse  of  godfather." 

They  talked  about  family  things  till  Robin  came  in  from 
his  festivity  with  Mr.  Thrush,  who  was  staying  at  Little  Clois- 
ters, but  only  till  the  following  day. 

That  was  a  great  moment,  the  moment  of  Robin's  arrival. 
Mr.  Thrush  did  not  appear  with  him,  but,  being  a  man  of  deli- 
cate perceptions  despite  his  unfortunate  appearance,  retired 
discreetly  to  the  servants'  hall,  leaving  his  devoted  adherent 
free  for  the  "  family  reunion,"  as  he  called  it. 

"  Go  up  quietly,  dear,"  said  the  nurse  to  Robin,  "  and  tap 
at  the  drawing-room  door." 

"Shall  I  tap?"  asked  Robin  earnestly. 

He  was  looking  unusually  solemn,  his  lips  were  parted,  and 
his  eyes  almost  stared. 

"  Yes,  dear.  Tap  prettily,  like  a  young  gentleman  as  you 
are,  and  when  you  hear  '  Come  in!  ' " 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  311 

"  I  know  then!  "  interrupted  Robin,  with  an  air  of  decision. 

He  walked  rather  slowly  upstairs,  lifting  one  brown  leg  after 
the  other  thoughtfully  from  step  to  step,  till  he  was  outside  the 
drawing-room  door.  Inside  he  heard  the  noise  of  a  man's 
voice,  which  sounded  to  him  very  tremendous  and  important, 
the  voice  of  a  brave  soldier. 

"That's  Fa!"  he  thought,  and  he  listened  for  a  moment 
as  to  the  voice  of  a  god. 

Then  he  doubled  his  small  fist  and  gave  a  bang  to  the  door. 
Some  instinct  told  him  not  to  follow  nurse's  injunction,  not  to 
try  to  be  pretty  in  his  tapping.  The  voice  of  the  soldier  ceased 
inside,  there  was  a  brief  sound  of  a  woman's  voice,  then  came 
a  strong  "  Come  in!  " 

Robin  opened  the  door,  went  straight  up  to  the  very  dark 
and  very  thin  man  whom  he  saw  sitting  by  the  fire,  and,  staring 
at  this  man  with  intensity,  lifted  up  his  face,  at  the  same  time 
saying : 

"'Ullo,  Fa!" 

There  was  a  dropped  aitch  for  which  nurse,  who  was  very 
choice  in  her  English,  would  undoubtedly  have  rebuked  him 
had  she  been  present.  The  dark  man  did  not  rebuke  Robin, 
but  caught  him  up  and  enfolded  him  in  a  hug  that  was  power- 
ful but  not  a  bit  rough.  Robin  was  quite  incapable  of  analyz- 
ing a  hug,  but  he  loved  it  as  he  would  not  have  loved  it  if  it 
had  been  rough,  or  if  it  had  been  merely  gentle.  A  sense  of 
great  happiness  and  of  great  confidence  flooded  him.  From 
that  moment  he  adored  his  father  as  he  had  never  adored  him 
before.  The  new  authority  of  his  father's  love  for  him  cap- 
tured him.  He  knew  nothing  about  it  and  he  knew  all  about 
it,  as  is  the  way  with  children,  those  instinctive  sparks  fresh 
from  the  great  furnace. 

Long  before  dinner  time  Dion  knew  that  he  had  won  some- 
thing beside  the  D.C.M.  which  he  had  won  in  South  Africa, 
something  that  was  wonderfully  precious  to  him.  He  gave 
Robin  the  Toby  jug  and  another  gift. 

He  cared  for  his  little  son  that  night  as  he  had  never  cared 
for  him  before.  It  was  as  if  the  sex  in  Robin  spoke  to  the 
sex  in  him  for  the  first  time  with  a  clear,  unmistakable  voice, 
saying,  "  We're  of  the  comradeship  of  the  male  sex,  we're  of  the 
brotherhood."  It  was  not  even  a  child's  voice  that  spoke, 
though  it  spoke  in  a  little  child.  Dion  blessed  South  Africa 
that  night,  felt  as  if  South  Africa  had  given  him  his  son. 

That  gift  would  surely  be  a  weapon  in  his  hands  by  meani 


312  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  which,  or  with  the  help  of  which,  he  would  conquer  the 
still  unconquered  mystery,  Rosamund's  whole  heart.  South 
Africa  had  <ione  much  for  Dion.  Out  there  in  that  wonderful 
atmosphere  he  had  seen  very  clearly,  his  vision  had  pierced 
great  distances;  he  saw  clearly  still,  in  England.  War,  it 
seemed,  was  so  terribly  truthful  that  it  swept  a  man  clean  of 
lies;  Dion  was  swept  clean  of  lies.  He  did  not  feel  able  any 
longer  even  to  tell  them  occasionally  to  himself.  He  knew 
that  Rosamund's  greeting  to  him,  warm,  sweet,  sincere  though 
it  had  been,  had  lacked  something  which  he  had  found  in 
Robin's.  But  he  felt  that  now  that  he  had  got  hold  of  Robin 
so  instantly,  and  so  completely,  the  conquest  of  the  woman  he 
had  only  won  must  be  but  a  question  of  time.  That  was  not 
pride  in  him  but  instinct,  speaking  with  that  voice  which  seems 
a  stranger  to  the  brain  of  man,  but  a  friend  to  something  else; 
something  universal  of  which  in  every  man  a  fragment  is 
housed,  or  by  which  every  man  is  mysteriously  penetrated. 

A  fortnight's  holiday  —  and  then? 

On  that  first  evening  it  had  been  assumed  that  as  soon  as 
Dion  went  back  to  business  in  Austin  Friars,  No.  5  Little 
Market  Street  would  receive  its  old  tenants  again,  be  scented 
again  with  the  lavender,  made  musical  with  Rosamund's  voice, 
made  gay  with  the  busy  prattle  and  perpetual  activities  of 
Robin. 

For  two  days  thereafter  no  reference  was  made  by  either 
Rosamund  or  Dion  to  the  question  of  moving.  Dion  gave  him- 
self up  to  Welsley,  to  holiday-making.  With  a  flowing  eager- 
ness, not  wholly  free  from  undercurrents,  Rosamund  swept  him 
sweetly  through  Welsley's  delights.  She  inoculated  him  with 
Welsley,  or  at  any  rate  did  her  best  to  inoculate  him,  secretly 
praying  with  all  her  force  that  the  wonderful  preparation  might 
"  take."  Soon  she  believed  that  it  was  "  taking."  It  was 
evident  that  Dion  was  delighted  with  Welsley.  On  his  very 
first  day  they  went  together  to  the  afternoon  service  in  the 
Cathedral,  and  when  the  anthem  was  given  out  it  proved  to 
be  "  The  Wilderness."  Rosamund's  quick  look  at  Dion  told 
him  that  this  was  her  sweet  doing,  and  that  she  remembered 
their  talk  on  the  hill  of  Drouva.  He  listened  to  that  anthem 
as  he  had  never  listened  to  an  anthem  before.  After  the  service 
Canon  Wilton,  who,  though  no  longer  in  residence  as  "  three 
months'  Canon,"  was  still  staying  on  at  his  house  in  the 
Precincts  for  a  few  days,  came  up  to  welcome  him  home. 
Then  Mr.  Dickinson  appeared,  full  of  that  modesty  which  is 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  313 

greedy  for  compliments.  Mrs.  Dickinson,  too,  drifted  up  the 
nave  in  a  casual  way  which  scarcely  concealed  her  curiosity 
about  Mrs.  Dion's  husband;  when,  later,  Rosamund  told  Dion 
of  her  Precincts'  name,  "  the  cold  douche,"  he  could  not  see  its 
applicability. 

"  I  thought  her  an  observant  but  quite  a  warm-hearted 
woman,"  he  said. 

"  She  is  warm-hearted;  in  fact  she's  a  dear,  and  I'm  very 
fond  of  her,"  said  Rosamund. 

"  Every  one  here  seems  very  fond  of  you,"  he  replied. 

Indeed,  he  was  struck  by  Welsley's  evident  love  of  Rosa- 
mund. It  was  like  a  warm  current  flowing  about  her,  and 
about  him  now,  because  he  was  her  husband.  He  was  greeted 
with  cordial  kindness  by  every  one. 

"  It  is  jolly  to  be  received  like  this,"  he  said  to  Rosamund. 
"  It  does  a  fellow  good  when  he's  just  come  home.  It  makes 
him  feel  that  there  is  indeed  no  place  like  England.  But  it's 
all  owing  to  you." 

But  she  protested. 

"  They  all  admire  and  respect  you  for  what  you've  done," 
she  said.  "  You've  brought  the  best  introductions  here,  your 
own  deeds.  They  speak  for  you." 

He  shook  his  head,  loving  her  perfectly  sincere  modesty. 

"  You  may  be  a  thousand  things,"  he  told  her,  "  but  one 
thing  you'll  never  be  —  vain  or  conceited." 

The  charm  of  her,  which  was  compounded  of  beauty  and 
goodness,  mixed  with  an  extraordinary  hold  upon,  and  joy  in, 
the  simple  and  healthy  things  of  life,  came  upon  him  with  a 
sort  of  glorious  newness  after  his  absence  in  South  Africa. 
He  loved  other  people's  love  of  her  and  the  splendid  reasons 
for  it  so  apparent  in  her.  But  for  Robin  he  might  nevertheless 
have  felt  baffled  and  sad  even  in  these  moments  dedicated  to 
the  joys  of  reunion,  he  might  have  felt  acutely  that  the  com- 
pleteness and  perfection  of  reunion  depended  upon  the  exact 
type  of  union  it  followed  upon.  Robin  saved  him  from  that. 
He  hoped  very  much  in  Robin,  who  had  suddenly  given  him 
a  confidence  in  himself  which  he  had  never  known  till  now. 
This  was  a  glorious  possession.  It  gave  him  force.  People 
in  Welsley  were  decidedly  impressed  by  Mrs.  Leith's  husband. 
Mrs.  Dickinson  remarked  to  her  Henry  over  griddle  cakes 
after  the  three  o'clock  service: 

"  I  call  Mr.  Leith  a  very  personable  man.  Without  having 
Mrs.  Leith's  wonderful  charm  —  what  man  could  have?  —  he 


3H  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

makes  a  distinct  impression.  He  has  suppressed  force,  and 
that's  what  women  like  in  a  man." 

Henry  took  another  griddle  cake,  and  wondered  whether  he 
was  wise  in  looking  so  decided.  Perhaps  he  ought  to  suppress 
his  undoubted  force;  perhaps  all  his  life,  without  knowing  it, 
he  had  hovered  on  the  verge  of  the  blatant. 

Canon  Wilton  also  was  struck  by  the  change  in  Dion,  and 
said  something,  but  not  just  then  all,  of  what  he  felt. 

"  You  know  the  phrase,  '  I'm  my  own  man  again,'  Leith, 
don't  you?  "  he  said,  in  his  strong  bass  voice,  looking  steadily 
at  Dion  with  his  kindly  stern  eyes.  (He  always  suggested  to 
Dion  a  man  who  would  be  very  stern  with  himself.) 

"  Yes,"  said  Dion.     "Why?" 

"  I  think  South  Africa's  made  you  your  own  man." 

Dion  looked  tremendously,  but  seriously,  pleased. 

"  Do  you  ?     And  what  about  the  again  ?  " 

"  Cut  it  out.  I  don't  think  you'd  ever  been  absolutely  your 
own  man  before  you  went  away." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  am  now,"  Dion  said,  but  without  any 
weakness. 

He  had  been  through  one  war  and  had  come  out  of  it  well; 
now  he  had  come  home  to  another.  The  one  campaign  had 
been  but  a  stern  preparation  for  the  other  perhaps.  But  Rosa- 
mund did  not  know  that.  Nevertheless,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
already  their  relation  to  each  other  was  slightly  altered.  He 
felt  that  she  was  more  sensitive  to  him  than  formerly,  more 
closely  observant  of  what  he  was  and  what  he  did,  more  watch- 
ful of  him  with  Robin,  more  anxious  about  his  opinion  on 
various  matters. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  matter  of  Mr.  Thrush. 

Dion  had  not  seen  Mr.  Thrush  on  the  evening  of  his  first 
day  at  Welsley.  He  had  been  kept  so  busy  by  Rosamund,  had 
done  and  seen  so  much,  that  he  had  quite  forgotten  the  ex- 
chemist.  In  the  evening,  however,  before  dinner,  he  suddenly 
remembered  him. 

"What's  become  of  Mr.  Thrush?"  he  asked.  "And,  by 
the  way,  what  is  he  doing  down  here?  You  never  told  me, 
Rose,  and  even  Robin's  not  said  a  word." 

"  I  asked  him  not  to,"  said  Rosamund,  with  her  half-shrewd, 
half-soft  look.  "  The  fact  is "  She  broke  off,  then  con- 
tinued, with  her  confidential  air,  "  Dion,  when  you  see  Mr. 
Thrush  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something  truthfully.  Will 
you?" 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  315 

"I'll  try  to.     What  is  it?" 

"  I  want  you  to  look  at  his  nose " 

"Rosamund!" 

"  No,  really,"  she  pursued,  with  great  earnestness.  "  And 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  whether  you  think,  honestly  think,  it  — 
better." 

"But  why?" 

"It's  very  important  for  Mr.  Thrush  that  it  should  look 
better.  He's  down  here  to  be  seen." 

Her  voice  had  become  almost  mysterious. 

"To  be  seen?     By  whom?     Is  he  on  show  in  the  town?" 

"  No  —  don't  laugh.  It's  really  important  for  his  future. 
I  must  tell  you  something.  He's  taken  the  modified  pledge." 

Her  look  said,  "There!  what  d'you  think  of  that?  " 

"  Modified!  "  said  Dion,  rather  doubtfully. 

"Never  between  meals  —  never." 

"  At  any  rate  that's  a  step  in  the  right  direction." 

"  Isn't  it?     I  took  it  with  him." 

"The  modified  pledge?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  great  seriousness. 

"But  you  never !     To  help  him,  of  course." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  has  it  made  a  difference  to  the  nose?  " 

"  I  think  it's  made  a  considerable  difference.  But  I  want 
your  opinion." 

"  I'll  give  it  you  for  what  it's  worth.  But  who's  going  to 
see  Mr.  Thrush  ?  " 

"The  Dean." 

"The  Dean!     Why  on  earth?" 

"  Almost  directly  there's  going  to  be  a  vacancy  among  the 
vergers,  and  the  Dean  has  promised  me  faithfully  that  if  Mr. 
Thrush  seems  suitable  he  shall  have  the  post." 

"Mr.  Thrush  a  verger!  Mr.  Thrush  carry  a  poker  before 
a  bishop!  " 

"  Not  a  poker,  only  a  white  wand.  I've  been  making  him 
practise  here  in  the  garden,  and  he  does  it  quite  admirably 
already." 

She  spoke  now  with  almost  defiant  emphasis.  Dion  loved 
her  for  the  defiance  and  for  its  deliciously  absurd  reason. 

"  The  Dean  is  away,  but  he's  coming  back  to-morrow,  so 
I  begin  to  feel  rather  anxious.  Of  course,  he'll  see  at  once 
that  Mr.  Thrush  is  an  educated  man.  I'm  not  afraid  about 
that.  It's  only  —  well,  the  little  failing.  It  would  mean  so 


316  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

much  for  Mr.  Thrush  to  get  the  post.  He'd  be  provided  for  for 
life.  I've  set  my  heart  on  it" 

Annie  came  in. 

"  Oh,  Annie,  is  it  Mr.  Thrush?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Please  ask  him  to  come  in." 

With  a  very  casual  air,  as  of  one  doing  a  thing  for  no  par- 
ticular reason  and  almost  without  thought,  she  lowered  the  wick 
of  the  lamp  which  illuminated  the  room. 

"  We  don't  want  it  to  flare,"  she  said,  as  she  came  away 
from  it.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Thrush,  here's  my  husband  back  again !  " 

With  a  certain  unostentatious  dignity  Mr.  Thrush  stepped 
into  the  room.  He  was  most  respectably  dressed  in  a  neat 
black  suit,  the  coat  of  which  looked  rather  like  either  a  frock 
coat  which  was  in  course  of  diminishing  gradually  into  what 
tailors  call  "  a  morning  coat,"  or  a  morning  coat  which  was 
in  course  of  expanding  gently  into  a  frock  coat;  a  speckless 
collar  with  points  appeared  above  a  black  bow  tie  at  his  thin 
and  pathetic  old  neck;  he  carried  a  pair  of  dark  worsted  gloves, 
and  a  hat  which  resembled  a  square  bowler  half-way  on  the 
road  to  top  hatdom. 

Dion  felt  touched  by  his  appearance  and  his  gait,  which 
seemed  to  hint  at  those  rehearsals  in  the  garden,  and  especially 
touched  by  the  fact  that  he  had  bought  a  new  hat. 

"  Welcome  home,  sir!  "  he  said  at  once  to  Dion.  "  I'm  sure 
the  country  is  proud  of  you." 

He  paid  the  compliment  with  so  much  sincerity  that  Dion 
did  not  feel  embarrassed  by  it. 

"  Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Thrush,"  said  Rosamund,  after  hands 
had  been  cordially  shaken.  "  No,  not  there !  " —  as  he  was 
about  to  sit  full  in  the  lamplight  — "  This  chair  will  be  more 
comfortable.  Now  I'll  leave  you  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
my  husband." 

With  an  inquiring  look  at  Dion  she  went  out  of  the  room. 

Before  she  came  back  Mr.  Thrush  had  told  Dion  all  his 
hopes  and  fears  with  regard  to  the  Dean,  and  had  dwelt  on 
his  overwhelming  desire  to  become  a  verger.  Quite  unself- 
conscious  in  his  simplicity  he  rose  almost  to  dignity.  He 
frankly  confessed  his  "  failing,"  and  alluded  to  the  taking  of 
the  modified  pledge.- 

"We  took  it  together,  sir,  your  kind  lady  and  I,  we  both 
pledged  ourselves  never  to  touch  a  drop  of  liquor  between 
meals  whatever  the  occasion." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  317 

"Quite  right!"  said  Dion,  with  firmness,  almost  with 
bruskness. 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  so,  sir.  But  a  verger  can't  be  too 
careful.  He's  held  up  as  an  example  to  the  whole  city  by  his 
position,  walking  so  often  in  procession  as  he  does  before  the 
eyes  of  all  men.  Even  a  chemist  scarcely  takes  so  much  upon 
himself.  In  respect  of  the  body  he  may,  I'll  allow  you, —  for 
no  verger  has  to  do  with  prussic  acid,  iodine,  cascara  and  all 
such-like, —  but  in  respect  of  what  I  might  call  the  uplifting  of 
the  soul  not  a  doubt  of  it  but  that  the  verger  comes  far  before 
any  chemist.  It's  a  solemn  thing  to  think  of,  and  I  hope,  if 
so  be  as  I'm  elected,  I  shall  be  worthy  of  the  position.  I  see 
Mr.  Dean  to-morrow,  sir,  at  eleven  o'clock.  I  trust  I  shall 
make  a  favorable  impression.  I  lived  just  off  Hanover  Square 
for  more  years  than  some  can  remember,  and  that,  I  hope,  with 
a  Very  Reverend  will  tell  in  my  favor.  None  of  the  vergers 
here,  though  I'm  sure  they're  a  splendid  body  of  men, —  any 
one  who  has  seen  them  walking  before  his  Lordship,  the  Bishop, 
the  Canons  and  what  not,  as  I  did  last  Sunday  morning,  would 
say  the  same, —  but  none  of  the  vergers  here  can  say  as  much. 
I've  made  inquiry,  but  of  course  with  all  discretion.  As  to 
the  duties,  sir,  I  think  I  can  fulfil  them.  The  carrying  of  the 
wand  I  may  say  I  am  almost  perfect  in  already.  I've  been 
at  it  in  the  garden  with  your  kind  good  lady  since  I  came.  I 
found  it  a  bit  difficult  at  first,  sir.  There's  a  what  you  might 
call  a  knack  to  it,  though  from  the  congregation  it  looks  simple 
enough.  But  there,  what  does  a  congregation  know  of  the 
things  a  verger  has  to  master  any  more  than  it  does  of  what  is 
required  of  a  good  chemist?  Often  and  often  when  I  was 
just  off  Hanover  Square " 

He  was  still  flowing  on  with  imperturbable  volubility  when 
Rosamund  came  back  and  sent  another,  more  inquiring,  glance 
to  Dion. 

When  Mr.  Thrush  had  retired  she  at  once  said  anx- 
iously: 

'Well?" 

'  He's  a  nice  old  chap." 

'  Yes,  isn't  he  ?     But  what  did  you  really  think  ?  " 

'About  the  nose?  " 

« Yes." 

"  The  lamp  was  turned  rather  low,  but  I  really  believe  the 
modified  pledge  has " 

"There!     What  did  I  say?"  she  interrupted  triumphantly. 


3i8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  knew  you'd  notice  the  difference.  It's  really  very  much 
like  yours  or  mine  now,  and  I'm  sure " 

But  here  Dion  broke  in  decisively. 

"  No,  Rosamund,  I  can't  let  that  pass.  It's  not  like  yours 
yet  I  say  nothing  about  mine.  But  I  honestly  think  it's 
modified  and  I  hope  the  Dean  will  pass  it." 

"  The  Dean  and  I  are  great  cronies!  "  she  murmured  doubt- 
fully. "  My  only  fear  is  that  after  he  is  a  verger  Mr.  Thrush 
may  —  may  lapse  if  I'm  not " 

She  stopped,  looking  at  Dion,  and  again  he  thought  that 
she  was  more  sensitive  to  his  opinion,  to  his  wishes,  than  she 
had  formerly  been.  Her  slightly  changed  attitude  made  Dion 
gladly  aware  of  change  in  himself.  He  meant  more  to  Rosa- 
mund now  than  he  had  meant  when  he  left  England. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THREE  days  had  slipped  by.  Dion  had  been  accepted 
as  one  of  the  big  Welsley  family,  had  been  made  free 
of  the  Precincts.  During  those  three  days  he  had  for- 
gotten London,  business,  everything  outside  of  Welsley.  It 
had  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  the  right  to  forget,  and  he  had 
exercised  it.  Robin  had  played  a  great  part  in  those  three 
days.  His  new  adoration  of  his  father  was  obvious  to  every 
one  who  saw  them  together.  The  soldier  appealed  to  the  little 
imagination.  Robin's  ardor  was  concentrated  for  the  moment 
in  his  pride  of  possession.  He  owned  a  father  who  —  his  own 
nurse  had  told  him  so  —  was  not  as  other  fathers,  not  as 
ordinary  fathers  such  as  stumped  daily  about  the  narrow  streets 
of  Welsley,  rubicund  and,  many  of  them,  protuberant  in  the 
region  of  the  watch-chain.  They  were  all  very  well;  Robin 
had  nothing  against  them;  many  of  them  were  clergymen  and 
commanded  his  respect  by  virtue  of  their  office,  their  gaiters, 
the  rosettes  and  cords  that  decorated  their  wide-winged  hats. 
But  they  were  not  like  "  Fa."  They  had  not  become  lean,  and 
muscular,  and  dark,  and  quick-limbed,  and  keen-eyed,  and 
spry,  in  the  severe  service  of  their  country.  They  had  not  — 
even  the  Archdeacon,  Robin's  rather  special  pal,  had  not  — 
ever  killed  any  wicked  men  who  did  not  like  England,  or  gone 
into  places  where  wicked  men  who  did  not  like  England  might 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  319 

have  killed  them.  Some  of  them  did  not  know  much  about 
guns,  did  not  seem  to  take  any  interest  in  guns.  It  was  rather 
pitiable.  Since  his  father  had  come  back  Robin  had  had  an 
opportunity  of  sounding  the  Archdeacon  on  the  subject  of  an 
advance  in  open  order.  The  result  had  not  been  satisfactory. 
The  Archdeacon,  Robin  thought,  had  taken  the  matter  with 
a  lightness,  almost  a  levity,  which  one  could  not  have  looked 
for  from  a  man  in  his  position,  and  when  questioned  as  to  his 
methods  of  taking  cover  had  frankly  said  that  he  had  none. 

"  I  like  him,"  Robin  said  ruefully.  "  But  he'll  never  be  a 
good  scout,  will  he,  Fa  ?  " 

To  which  Dion  replied  with  discretion. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  good  scouts,  old  boy,  who  would  never 
make  good  archdeacons." 

"  Is  there?  "  said  Robin.  "  Why  not?  I  know  what  scouts 
does,  but  what  does  archdeacons  does  ?  " 

And  with  that  he  had  his  father  stumped.  Dion  had  not 
been  long  enough  at  Welsley  to  dive  into  all  its  mysteries. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  Dion  told  Rosamund  that 
he  must  go  to  London  on  the  following  morning. 

"  I've  got  something  I  must  do  and  I  want  to  tell  you  about 
it,"  he  said.  "  You  remember  Mrs.  Clarke?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosamund. 

"  It  must  be  more  than  two  years  since  I've  seen  her.  She 
lives  a  great  deal  in  Constantinople,  you  know.  But  she  some- 
times comes  to  London  in  the  winter.  It's  abominably  cold  in 
Constantinople  in  winter.  There  are  perpetual  winds  from  the 
Black  Sea." 

"  Yes,  I  know  there  are.  Esme  Darlington  has  told  me 
about  them." 

"  Mrs.  Clarke's  in  London  now." 

"  Did  you  see  her  when  you  passed  through  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  want  to  see  her  to-morrow.  Rose,  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  something  which  nobody  else  must  know.  I  was 
asked  to  keep  it  entirely  to  myself,  but  I  refused.  I  was  re- 
solved to  tell  you,  because  I  don't  believe  in  secrets  between 
husband  and  wife  —  about  their  doings,  I  mean."  (Just  then 
he  had  happened  to  think  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  farewell  telegram 
to  him  when  he  had  sailed  for  South  Africa.) 

"  I  know  how  frank  and  sincere  you  always  are,  Dion,"  she 
said  gently. 

"I  try  to  be.  You  remember  that  party  at  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde's  where  you  sang?  You  met  Mrs.  Clarke  that  night." 


320  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Of  course  I  remember.     We  had  quite  an  interesting  talk." 

"  She's  clever.  Lord  Brayfield  was  there,  too,  that  night, 
a  fair  man." 

"  I  saw  him.     He  wasn't  introduced  to  me." 

"  Brayfield  was  shot  in  the  war.     Did  you  know  it?  " 

"  No.  I  thought  I  had  read  everything.  But  I  didn't  hap- 
pen to  see  it." 

"  And  I  didn't  mention  it  when  I  wrote.  I  thought  I'd  tell 
you  if  I  came  home.  Brayfield,  poor  fellow,  didn't  die  imme- 
diately. He  suffered  a  great  deal,  but  he  was  able  to  write 
two  or  three  letters  —  last  messages  —  home.  One  of  these 
messages  was  written  to  Mrs.  Clarke.  He  gave  it  to  me  and 
made  me  promise  to  convey  it  to  her  personally,  not  to  put  it 
in  the  post." 

"Was  Lord  Brayfield  in  the  C.I.V.?"  asked  Rosamund. 

"  Oh  no.  He  was  a  captain  in  the  5th  Lancers.  We  were 
brigaded  with  them  for  a  bit  and  under  fire  at  the  same  time. 
Brayfield  happened  to  see  me.  He  knew  I  was  an  acquaintance 
of  Mrs.  Clarke's,  and  when  he  was  shot  he  asked  that  I  should 
be  allowed  to  come  to  him.  Permission  was  given.  I  went, 
and  he  asked  me  if  I'd  give  Mrs.  Clarke  a  letter  from  him 
when  I  got  home.  It  seems  none  of  his  brother  officers  hap- 
pened to  know  her.  He  might  have  given  the  letter  to  one 
of  them.  It  would  have  been  more  natural.  But " —  Dion 
hesitated  — "  well,  he  wanted  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  some 
one  who  knew  her,  I  suppose." 

Rosamund  quite  understood  there  were  things  Dion  did  not 
care  to  tell  even  to  her.  She  did  not  want  to  hear  them.  She 
was  not  at  all  a  curious  woman. 

"  I'm  glad  you  are  able  to  take  the  letter,"  she  said. 

And  then  she  began  to  talk  about  something  else.  Mr. 
Thrush's  prospects  with  the  Dean,  which  were  even  yet  not 
quite  decided. 

By  the  quick  train  at  nine  o'clock  Dion  left  Welsley  next 
morning;  he  was  in  London  by  half-past  ten.  He  had  of 
course  written  to  Mrs.  Clarke  asking  if  he  could  see  her.  She 
had  given  him  an  appointment  for  three  o'clock  at  the  flat 
she  had  taken  for  a  few  months  in  Park  Side,  Knightsbridge. 
Dion  went  first  to  the  City,  and  after  doing  some  business 
there,  and  lunching  with  his  uncle  at  the  Cheshire  Cheese, 
got  into  a  cab  and  drove  to  Knightsbridge. 

Mrs.  Clarke's  flat  was  on  the  first  floor  of  a  building  which 
faced  the  street  on  one  side  and  Hyde  Park  on  the  other. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  321 

Dion  rang  at  a  large,  very  solid  oak  door.  In  two  or  three 
minutes  the  door  was  opened  by  an  elderly  maid,  with  high 
cheek-bones  and  long  and  narrow  light  gray  eyes,  who  said, 
with  a  foreign  accent,  that  Mrs.  Clarke  was  at  home.  After- 
wards Dion  knew  that  this  woman  was  a  Russian  and  Mrs. 
Clarke's  own  maid. 

She  showed  Dion  into  a  long  curving  hall  in  which  a  fire 
was  burning.  Here  he  left  his  hat  and  coat.  While  he  was 
taking  the  coat  off  he  had  time  to  think,  "  What  an  original 
hall  this  is!  "  From  it  he  got  an  impression  of  warmth  and 
of  a  pleasant  dimness.  He  had  really  no  time  to  look  care- 
fully about,  but  a  quick  glance  told  him  that  there  were  inter- 
esting things  in  this  hall,  or  at  any  rate  interestingly  combined. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  stamp  of  originality. 

The  Russian  maid  showed  him  into  a  drawing-room  and 
went  away  to  tell  "  Madame."  She  did  not  go  out  by  the  hall, 
but  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  long  narrow  drawing-room, 
and  passed  through  a  small  doorway  at  its  farther  end. 
Through  this  doorway  there  filtered  into  the  drawing-room  a 
curious  blue  light.  All  the  windows  of  the  drawing-room 
looked  into  Hyde  Park,  on  to  the  damp  grass,  the  leafless  trees, 
the  untenanted  spaces  of  autumn. 

Dion  went  to  the  fireplace,  which  faced  the  far  doorway. 
There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  room;  not  a  sound  came  to  it 
just  then  from  without.  He  could  scarcely  believe  he  was  in 
Knightsbridge.  Not  even  a  clock  was  ticking  on  the  mantel- 
piece above  the  fire,  in  which  ship  logs  were  burning.  The 
flames  which  came  from  them  were  of  various  shades  of  blue, 
like  magical  flames  conjured  up  by  a  magician.  He  looked 
round.  He  had  never  seen  a  room  like  this  before.  It  was 
a  room  to  live  in,  to  have  long  talks  in,  to  lie  dreaming  in,  to 
read  curious  books  in,  to  hear  strange  music  in;  it  was  not 
a  reception-room.  Not  crowded  with  furniture  it  was  not  at 
all  bare.  Its  "  note  "  was  not  austere  but  quite  the  contrary. 
It  was  a  room  which  quietly  enticed.  Dion  was  not  one  of 
those  men  who  know  all  about  women's  dresses,  and  combina- 
tions of  color,  and  china,  and  furniture,  but  he  was  observant; 
as  a  rule  he  noticed  what  he  saw.  Fresh  from  South  Africa, 
from  a  very  hard  life  out  of  doors,  he  looked  at  this  room  and 
was  almost  startled  by  it.  The  refinement  of  it  was  excessive 
in  his  eyes  and  reminded  him  of  something  overbred,  of  certain 
Italian  greyhounds,  for  instance.  Strange  blues  and  greens 
were  dexterously  combined  through  the  room,  in  the  carpet, 


322  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  curtains,  the  blinds,  the  stuffs  which  covered  the  chairs, 
sofas,  divans,  cushions  —  blues  and  greens  innumerable.  He 
had  never  before  seen  so  many  differing  shades  of  the  two 
colors;  he  had  not  known  that  so  many  shades  existed.  In 
the  china  these  colors  were  repeated.  The  door  by  which  he 
had  come  in  was  of  thick  glass  in  a  frame  of  deep  blue  wood 
and,  by  means  of  a  mysterious  light  in  the  hall,  was  made 
mistily  blue.  All  along  the  windows,  lilies  were  growing,  or 
seemed  to  be  growing,  in  earth  closely  covered  with  green  moss. 
There  were  dwarf  trees,  like  minute  yew  trees,  in  green  and 
blue  china  pots. 

And  always  the  ship  logs  in  the  fire  gave  out  the  magical 
blue  flames. 

Certainly  the  general  effect  of  the  room  was  not  only  lux- 
uriously comfortable,  but  also  strangely  beautiful,  though  there 
was  nothing  in  it  which  a  lover  of  antiques  would  have  given 
his  eyes  for.  To  Dion,  fresh  from  South  Africa,  the  room 
looked  too  comfortable,  too  ingeniously  beautiful.  It  struck 
him  as  ultra  modern,  ahead  of  anything  he  had  ever  yet  seen, 
and  almost  as  evil.  But  certainly  it  enticed. 

He  heard  the  distant  sound  of  a  woman's  dress  and  saw 
Mrs.  Clarke  coming  slowly  in  from  the  room  beyond  (another 
blue  and  green  room  perhaps),  and  he  thought  of  Brayfield 
dying.  He  thrust  a  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat 
and  brought  out  the  dead  man's  letter. 

Mrs.  Clarke  came  up  to  the  fire  and  greeted  him.  She  did 
not  look  a  moment  older  than  when  he  had  seen  her  last  at 
Claridge's,  or  indeed  than  when  he  had  first  seen  her  standing 
under  the  statue  of  Echo  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  drawing-room. 
The  same  feverish  refinement  still  was  with  her,  belonged  to 
her;  she  looked  as  before,  wasted  as  if  by  some  obscure  disease, 
haunted,  almost  distressed,  and  yet  absolutely  self -con  trolled, 
mistress  of  herself  and  unconscious  of  critical  observation. 
Not  even  for  a  moment,  seeing  her  thus  again  after  a  long 
interval  of  time,  did  Dion  hesitate  about  her  beauty.  Un- 
doubtedly she  had  beauty.  The  shape  of  her  head  was  lovely, 
and  her  profile  was  like  a  delicate  vision  seen  in  water.  The 
husky  sound  of  her  voice  in  her  first  words  to  him  took  him 
back  to  the  Divorce  Court. 

"  You  haven't  changed,"  she  said,  staring  intently  at  him 
in  her  oddly  impersonal  way,  which  appraised  and  yet  held 
something  of  inwardness. 

"  But  people  say  I  have  changed  very  much." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  323 

"People?" 

"Well  — my  people." 

"  I  don't  call  natural  development  change.  I  saw  in  you 
very  plainly  when  we  first  met  what  you  are  now.  You  have 
got  there.  That's  all." 

Her  lips  were  very  pale.  How  strangely  unshining  her  hair 
was. 

"Yes,  she  looks  punished!"  he  thought.  "It's  that  look 
of  punishment  which  sets  her  quite  apart  from  all  other 
women." 

She  glanced  at  the  letter  he  was  holding  and  sat  down  on 
a  very  broad  green  divan.  There  were  many  cushions  upon 
it;  she  did  not  heap  them  behind  her,  but  sat  quite  upright. 
She  did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down.  He  would  do  as  he  liked. 
Absurd  formalities  of  any  kind  did  not  enter  into  her  scheme 
of  life. 

"  How  is  Jimmy?  "  he  asked. 

"  Brilliantly  well.  He's  been  at  Eton  for  a  long  time,  doing 
dreadfully  at  work  —  he's  a  born  dunce  —  and  splendidly  at 
play.  How  he  would  appreciate  you  as  you  are  now !  " 

She  spoke  with  a  gravity  that  was  both  careless  and  intense. 
He  sat  down  near  her.  In  his  letter  asking  to  see  her  he  had 
not  told  her  that  he  had  a  special  object  in  wishing  to  visit 
her.  t  By  her  glance  at  Brayfield's  letter  he  knew  that  she  had 
gathered  it. 

They  talked  of  Jimmy  for  a  few  minutes;  then  Dion  said: 

"  My  regiment  was  brigaded  with  Lord  Brayfield's  for  a 
time  in  South  Africa.  I  was  in  the  action  in  which  he  was 
shot,  poor  chap.  He  saw  me  and  remembered  that  I  was  a  — 
a  friend  of  yours.  When  he  was  dying  he  wanted  to  see  me. 
I  was  sent  for,  and  he  gave  me  this  letter  for  you.  He  asked 
me  to  give  it  to  you  myself  if  I  came  back." 

He  bent  down  to  her  with  the  letter. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  she  took  it  without  looking 
at  all  surprised,  and  with  her  habitual  composed  gravity. 
"  There  are  Turkish  cigarettes  in  that  ivory  box,"  she  added, 
looking  at  a  box  on  a  table  close  by. 

"  Thank  you." 

As  Dion  turned  to  get  a  cigarette  he  heard  her  tearing  Bray- 
field's envelope. 

"  Will  you  give  me  one?  "  said  the  husky  voice. 

Without  saying  anything  he  handed  to  her  the  box,  and  held 
a  lighted  match  to  her  cigarette  when  it  was  between  the  pale 


324  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

lips.  She  smoked  gently  as  she  opened  and  read  Brayfield's 
letter.  When  she  had  finished  it  —  evidently  it  was  not  a  long 
letter  —  she  put  it  back  into  the  envelope,  laid  it  down  on  the 
green  divan  and  said: 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  room?  It  was  designed  and 
arranged  by  Monsieur  de  Vaupre,  a  French  friend  of  mine." 

"  By  a  man!  "  said  Dion  irrepressibly. 

"  Who  hasn't  been  in  the  South  African  War.  Do  you  like 
it?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,  but  I  admire  it  a  good  deal." 

He  was  looking  at  the  letter  lying  on  the  divan,  and  Bray- 
field  was  before  him,  tormented  and  dying.  He  had  always 
disliked  the  look  of  Brayfield,  but  he  had  felt  almost  a  sort  of 
affection  for  him  when  he  was  dying.  Foolishly  perhaps,  Dion 
wanted  Mrs.  Clarke  to  say  something  kind  about  Brayfield  now. 

"  If  you  admire  it,  why  don't  you  like  it?  "  she  asked.  "  A 
person  —  I  could  understand;  but  a  room!" 

He  looked  at  her  and  hesitated  to  acknowledge  a  feeling  at 
which  he  knew  something  in  her  would  smile;  then  he  thought 
of  Rosamund  and  of  Little  Cloisters  and  spoke  out  the  truth. 

"  I  think  it's  an  unwholesome-looking  room.  It  looks  to 
me  as  if  it  had  been  thought  out  and  arranged  by  somebody 
with  a  beastly,  though  artistic,  mind." 

"  The  inner  room  is  worse,"  she  said. 

But  she  did  not  offer  to  show  it  to  him,  nor  did  she  disagree 
with  his  view.  He  even  had  the  feeling  that  his  blunt  remark 
had  pleased  her. 

He  asked  her  about  Constantinople.  She  lived  there,  she 
told  him,  all  through  the  spring  and  autumn,  and  spent  the 
hottest  months  on  the  Bosphorus. 

"  People  are  getting  accustomed  to  my  temerity,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course  Esme  Darlington  is  still  in  despair,  and  Lady 
Ermyntrude  goes  about  spreading  scandal.  But  it  doesn't 
seem  to  do  much  harm.  She  hasn't  any  more  influence  over 
my  husband.  He  won't  hear  a  word  against  me.  Like  a  good 
dog,  I  suppose,  he  loves  the  hand  which  has  beaten  him." 

"  You've  got  a  will  of  iron,  I  believe,"  said  Dion. 

She  changed  the  subject. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  tell  me  about  South  Africa,"  she  said. 
"  Because  you  told  me  the  whole  story  as  soon  as  I  came  into 
the  room.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  Settle  down  in 
the  Church's  bosom  at  Welsley  ?  " 

There  was  no  sarcasm  in  her  voice. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  325 

"  Oh  —  I'm  going  back  to  business  in  a  few  days." 

"  You'll  run  up  and  down,  I  suppose." 

"  It's  too  far,  an  hour  and  a  half  each  way.  I  shall  have  to 
be  in  London." 

He  spoke  rather  indecisively. 

"  I'm  taking  a  fortnight's  holiday,  and  then  we  shall  settle 
down." 

"  I've  been  in  Welsley,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  It's  beautiful 
but,  to  me,  stifling.  It  has  an  atmosphere  which  would  soon 
dry  up  my  mind.  All  the  petals  would  curl  up  and  go  brown 
at  the  edges.  I'm  glad  you're  not  going  to  live  there.  But 
after  South  Africa  you  couldn't." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  find  it  very  attractive,"  he  said,  in- 
stinctively on  the  defensive  because  of  Rosamund,  who  had  not 
been  attacked.  "  The  coziness  and  the  peace  of  it  are  very  de- 
lightful after  all  the  —  well,  of  course,  it  was  a  pretty  stiff  life 
in  South  Africa." 

Again  he  looked  at  Brayfield's  letter.  He  wanted  to  tell  Mrs. 
Clarke  about  Brayfield,  but  it  seemed  she  had  no  interest  in 
the  dead  man.  While  he  was  thinking  this  she  quietly  put  out 
her  hand,  took  the  letter,  got  up  and  dropped  it  into  the  fire 
among  the  blue  flames  from  the  ship  logs. 

"  I  seldom  keep  letters,"  she  said,  "  unless  I  have  to  answer 
them." 

She  turned  round. 

"  I've  kept  yours,"  she  said. 

"  The  one  I  —  it  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  send  me  that 
telegram." 

"  So  Allah  had  you  in  His  hand." 

"  I  don't  know  why  when  so  many  much  better  fellows " 

He  broke  off,  and  then  he  plunged  into  the  matter  of  Bray- 
field.  He  could  not  go  without  telling  her,  though  hearing,  per- 
haps, would  not  interest  her. 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking  she  remained  standing  by  the 
fire,  with  her  lovely  little  head  slightly  bending  forward  and 
her  profile  turned  towards  him.  The  emaciation  of  her  figure 
almost  startled  him.  She  wore  a  black  dress.  It  seemed  to  him 
a  very  simple  dress.  She  could  have  told  him  that  such  sim- 
plicity only  comes  from  a  few  very  great  dressmakers,  and  is 
only  fully  appreciated  by  a  very  few  women. 

Brayfield,  though  he  was  dying,  had  been  very  careful  in 
what  he  had  said  to  .Dion.  In  his  pain  he  had  shown  that  he 
had  good  blood  in  him.  He  had  not  hinted  even  at  any  claim 


326  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

on  Mrs.  Clarke.  But  he  had  spoken  of  a  friendship  which  had 
meant  very  much  to  him,  and  had  asked  Dion,  if  he  ever  had  the 
opportunity,  to  tell  Mrs.  Clarke  that  when  he  was  dying  she 
was  the  woman  he  was  thinking  about.  He  had  not  spoken 
interestingly;  he  was  not  an  interesting  man;  but  he  had  spoken 
with  sincerity,  with  genuine  feeling. 

"  She's  a  woman  in  a  thousand,"  he  had  said.  "  Tell  her  I 
thought  so  till  the  last.  Tell  her  if  she  had  been  free  I  should 
have  begged  her  to  marry  me." 

And  he  had  added,  after  a  pause: 

"  Not  that  she'd  ever  have  done  it.  I'm  pretty  sure  of 
that." 

When  Dion  had  finished,  still  standing  by  the  fire,  Mrs. 
Clarke  said: 

"  Thank  you  for  remembering  it  all.  It  shows  your  good 
heart." 

"Oh  — please!" 

Why  didn't  she  think  about  Brayfield? 

She  turned  round  and  fixed  her  distressed  eyes  on  him. 

"  Which  is  best,  to  be  charitable  or  to  be  truthful  ?  "  she 
said,  without  any  vibration  of  excitement.  "  De  Mortuis  — 
it's  a  kindly  saying.  A  true  Turk,  one  of  the  old  Osmanlis, 
might  have  said  it.  If  you  hadn't  brought  me  that  letter  and 
the  message  I  should  probably  never  have  mentioned  Bray- 
field  to  you  again.  But  as  it  is  I  am  going  to  be  truthful.  1 
can  say  honestly  peace  to  Brayfield's  ashes.  His  death  was 
worthy.  Courage  he  evidently  had.  But  you  mustn't  think 
that  because  he  liked  me  I  ever  liked  him.  Don't  make  a  mis- 
take. I'm  not  a  nervous  suspicious  fool  of  a  woman  anxiously 
defending,  or  trying  to  defend,  her  honor  —  not  attacked,  by 
the  way.  If  Lord  Brayfield  had  ever  been  anything  to  me  I 
should  just  be  quiet,  say  nothing.  But  I  didn't  like  him.  If 
I  had  liked  him  I  shouldn't  have  burnt  his  letter.  And  now  " 
—  to  Dion's  great  astonishment  she  made  slowly  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  — "  requiescat  in  pace." 

After  a  long  pause  she  added: 

"  Now  come  and  see  the  other  room.  I'll  give  you  Turkish 
coffee  there." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  327 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  had  been  understood  between  Rosamund  and  Dion  that 
he  should  spend  that  night  in  London.  He  had  sev- 
eral things  to  see  to  after  his  long  absence,  had  to  visit  his 
tailor,  the  dentist,  the  bootmaker,  to  look  out  some  things  in 
Little  Market  Street,  to  have  an  interview  with  his  banker,  et 
cetera.  He  would  go  back  to  Welsley  on  the  following  after- 
noon. In  the  evening  of  that  day  he  dined  in  De  Lome  Gar- 
dens with  Beatrice  and  Guy  Daventry  and  his  mother,  and 
again,  as  in  Knightsbridge,  something  was  said  about  the  Wels- 
ley question.  Dion  gathered  that  Rosamund's  devotion  to 
Welsley  was  no  secret  in  "  the  family."  The  speedy  return  to 
Little  Market  Street  was  assumed;  nevertheless  he  was  certain 
that  his  mother,  his  sister-in-law,  and  Guy  were  secretly  won- 
dering how  Rosamund  would  be  able  to  endure  the  departure 
from  Welsley.  Beatrice  had  welcomed  him  back  very  quietly, 
but  he  had  felt  more  definitely  than  ever  before  the  strong  sym- 
pathy which  existed  between  them. 

"  I  quite  love  Beattie,"  he  said  to  his  mother  in  the  jobbed 
brougham  with  the  high  stepping,  but  slow  moving,  horse 
which  conveyed  them  to  Queen  Anne's  Mansions  after  the  din- 
ner. 

"  She  is  worth  it,"  said  Mrs.  Leith.  "  Beatrice  says  very  lit- 
tle, but  she  means  very  much." 

"  Yes.  I  wonder  —  I  wonder  how  much  of  her  meaning  I 
thoroughly  understand,  mater." 

"  Perhaps  about  five  per  cent  of  it,  dee-ar,"  observed  Mrs. 
Leith  in  her  sweetest  voice. 

And  then  she  began  to  talk  about  Esme  Darlington. 

That  night  Dion  stayed  at  Queen  Anne's  Mansions,  and  slept 
in  his  old  room. 

In  her  room  his  mother  lay  awake  because  she  wished  to 
lie  awake.  In  sleep  she  would  have  lost  the  precious  sense  of 
her  boy's  nearness  to  her.  So  she  counted  the  hours  and  she 
thanked  God;  and  twice  in  the  night  she  slipped  out  into  the 
hall,  with  her  ample  dressing-gown  folded  about  her,  and  she 
looked  at  her  boy's  coat  hanging  on  its  hook,  and  she  listened 
just  outside  his  door.  Once  she  felt  certain  she  heard  his  quiet 
breathing,  and  then,  shutting  her  eyes,  for  a  moment  she  was 
again  the  girl  mother  with  little  Dion. 

Little,  little  Dion!     The  soldier,  burnt  and  hardened  and 


328  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

made  wholly  a  man  by  South  Africa,  was  still  that  to  his  mother, 
more  than  ever  that  since  he  had  been  to  the  war. 

That  question  of  Welsley! 

Going  down  in  the  train  next  day  Dion  thought  about  it  a 
great  deal.  With  his  return  the  old  longing,  almost  an  old 
need  it  was,  to  give  Rosamund  whatever  she  wanted,  or  cared 
at  all  for,  had  come  to  him  again.  But  something  fought  it, 
the  new  longing  to  dominate  and  the  wish  to  give  Rosamund 
chances.  Besides,  how  could  they  possibly  live  on  in  Welsley? 
He  could  not  spend  from  three  to  four  hours  every  day  in  the 
train.  He  might  get  away  from  London  on  Fridays  and  stay 
at  Welsley  every  week  till  Monday  morning,  but  that  would 
mean  living  alone  in  Little  Market  Street  for  four  days  in  the 
week.  If  he  seemed  willing  to  do  that,  would  Rosamund  con- 
sent to  it? 

Another  test!     He  remembered  his  test  before  the  war. 

Mrs.  Clarke's  allusion  to  Welsley  had  left  a  rather  strong 
impression  upon  him.  He  did  not  know  whether  he  had  a  great 
respect  for  her,  but  he  knew  that  he  had  a  great  respect  for  her 
mind.  Like  Beattie,  but  in  a  very  different  way,  she  meant  a 
great  deal.  He  no  longer  doubted  that  she  liked  him  very  much, 
though  why  he  honestly  did  not  know.  When  with  her  he  felt 
strongly  that  he  was  not  an  interesting  man.  Dumeny  was  a 
beast,  he  felt  sure,  but  he  also  felt  sure  that  Dumeny  was  an 
interesting  man. 

Mrs.  Clarke's  wild  mind  attracted  something  in  him. 
Through  her  eyes  he  was  able  to  see  the  tameness  of  Welsley, 
a  dear  tameness,  safe,  cozy,  full  of  a  very  English  charm  and 

touched  with  ancient  beauty,  but  still !  Would  the  petals 

of  Rosamund  ever  curl  up  and  go  brown  at  the  edges  from  liv- 
ing at  Welsley?  No,  he  could  not  imagine  that  ever  happen- 
ing. A  dried-up  mind  she  could  never  have. 

He  would  not  see  Welsley  through  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Clarke. 

Nevertheless  when  he  got  out  of  the  train  at  Welsley  Sta- 
tion, and  saw  Robin's  pal,  the  Archdeacon,  getting  out  too,  and 
a  couple  of  minor  canons,  who  had  come  up  for  evening  papers 
or  something,  greeting  him  with  an  ecclesiastical  heartiness 
mingled  with  just  a  whiff  of  professional  deference,  Mrs. 
Clarke's  verdict  of  "  stifling  "  recurred  to  his  mind. 

Stamboul  and  Welsley  —  Mrs.  Clarke  and  Rosamund  I 

The  dual  comparison  made  him  at  once  see  the  truth.  Stam- 
boul and  Welsley  were  beautiful;  each  possessed  an  enticing 
quality;  but  the  one  enticed  by  its  grandiose  mystery,  by  its 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  329 

sharp  contrasts  of  marble  stability  and  matchboard  frailty,  by 
its  melancholy  silences  and  spaces,  by  its  obscure  peace  and  its 
dangerous  passion;  the  other  by  its  delightful  simplicity,  its 
noble  homeliness,  its  dignity  and  charm  of  an  old  faith  and  a 
smiling  unworldliness,  its  harmonies  of  gray  and  of  green,  of 
stone  and  verdure,  its  serenity  lifted  skywards  by  many  bells. 

But  at  the  heart  of  Stamboul  the  dust  lay  thick,  and  there 
was  dew  at  the  heart  of  Welsley. 

Perhaps  green  Elis,  with  its  sheep-bells,  the  eternal  voices 
of  its  pine  trees,  the  celestial  benignity  of  its  Hermes,  was  more 
to  be  desired  than  either  Stamboul  or  Welsley.  But  for  the 
moment  Welsley  was  very  desirable. 

Dion  gave  his  bag  to  an  "  outside  porter,"  and  walked  to  the 
Precincts  with  the  Archdeacon. 

He  found  Rosamund  uplifted  and  triumphant;  Mr.  Thrush 
had  finally  captivated  the  Dean,  and  had  been  given  the  "  sit- 
uation "  which  Rosamund  had  desired  for  him.  Her  joy  was 
almost  ebullient.  She  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  Mr.  Thrush 
was  to  be  installed  on  the  following  Sunday. 

"  Installed  ?  "  said  Dion.  "  Is  the  Archbishop  coming  down 
to  conduct  the  ceremony?  " 

"  No,  no !  What  I  mean  is  that  Mr.  Thrush  will  walk  in 
the  procession  for  the  first  time.  Oh,  I  shall  be  so  nervous!  If 
only  he  carries  the  wand  as  I've  taught  him!  I  don't  know 
what  Mr.  Thrush  would  do  without  me.  He  seems  to  depend 
on  me  for  everything  now,  poor  old  gentleman." 

"  I'm  afraid  he'll  miss  you  dreadfully,"  said  Dion. 

"Miss  me?    When?" 

Before  he  could  answer  she  said  quickly : 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Dion,  while  you've  been  away  I've  done 
something  for  you." 

"What  is  it,  Rose?" 

She  was  looking  gaily  mysterious,  and  almost  cunning,  but 
in  a  delightful  way. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  be  bored  during  your  holiday." 

"  Bored!  Don't  you  realize  that  this  is  an  earthly  Paradise 
for  me?  You  and  Robin  and  peace  after  South  Africa." 

She  looked  very  shrewd. 

"  That's  all  very  well,  but  a  man,  especially  a  soldier  man, 
wants  sport." 

She  laid  a  strong  and  happy  emphasis  on  the  last  word, 
and  then  she  disclosed  the  secret.  A  brother  of  "the  cold 
douche,"  a  gentleman  farmer  who  had  land  some  four  miles 


330  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

from  Welsley,  and  who  was  "  a  great  friend  "  of  Rosamund's 
—  she  had  met  him  three  times  at  the  organist's  house  —  hear- 
ing of  Dion's  arrival,  had  written  to  say  that  he  had  some  part- 
ridges which  needed  "  keeping  down."  He  himself  was  "  laid 
by  "  with  a  bad  leg,  but  he  would  be  very  glad  if  Mr.  Leith 
would  "  take  his  chance  among  the  birds  "  any  day,  or  days, 
he  liked  while  at  Welsley.  The  gentleman  farmer  could  not 
offer  much,  just  the  ground,  most  of  it  stubble,  and  a  decent 
lot  of  birds. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Dickinson  knew  through  me  how  fond  of  shoot- 
ing you  are.  We  owe  it  all  to  her,"  said  Rosamund,  in  con- 
clusion. "  I've  written  to  thank  him,  and  to  say  how  glad 
you'll  be." 

"  But  you  must  come  too,"  he  said.  "  You  shot  in  Greece, 
you  must  shoot  again  here." 

"  I  don't  think  I  will  here,"  said  Rosamund,  confidentially 
and  rather  mysteriously. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  the  Dean  would  approve  of  it.  And 
he's  been  so  bricky  about  Mr.  Thrush  that  I  shouldn't  like  to 
hurt  him." 

"  I  can't  go  alone.     I  shall  take  Robin  then." 

He  spoke  half-laughingly. 

"Robin?" 

"  Yes,  why  not?     I'm  sure  he'd  love  to  go." 

"  Of  course  he  would.  But  how  could  his  little  legs  walk 
over  stubble?  He's  not  four  years  old  yet." 

"  Robin's  got  to  be  Doric.     He  can't  begin  too  soon." 

She  smiled,  then  looked  at  him  seriously. 

"  Dion,  do  you  know  that  you've  come  back  much  more  Doric 
than  you  were  when  you  went  out?  " 

"Have  I,  Rose?" 

"  Much  more." 

"  Do  you  like  me  less  because  of  that?  " 

She  blushed  faintly. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

That  faint  blush  made  Dion's  heart  bound,  he  scarcely  knew 
why.  But  he  only  said  soberly: 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  And  now  about  Robin.  You're  right. 
He  can't  walk  over  stubble  with  me,  but  why  shouldn't  I  stick 
him  on  a  pony  ?  " 

"  Oh —  a  pony!     How  he  would  love  it!  " 

"Can't  I  get  hold  of  one?" 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  331 

"  But  Job  Crickendon's  got  one !  " 

"  Job  Crick  —...?" 

"  Mrs.  Dickinson's  brother  who's  lending  you  the  partridges. 
Don't  say  another  word,  Dion.  I'll  arrange  it  all.  Robin  will 
be  in  the  seventh  heaven." 

"  And  you  must  come  with  us." 

Rosamund  was  about  to  speak  quickly.  Dion  saw  that.  Her 
eyes  shone;  she  opened  her  lips.  But  something,  some  sudden 
thought,  stopped  her.  After  a  minute  she  said  quietly: 

"  We'll  see." 

And  she  gave  Dion  a  curious,  tender  look  which  he  did  not 
quite  understand.  Surely  she  was  keeping  some  delicate  se- 
cret from  him,  one  of  those  dear  secrets  which  perhaps  will  never 
be  told,  but  which  are  sometimes  happily  guessed. 

Dion  could  not  help  seeing  that  Rosamund  eagerly  wanted  to 
attach  him  to  Welsley.  He  felt  that  she  had  not  honestly  and 
fully  faced  the  prospect  of  returning  to  live  in  London.  Her 
plan  —  he  saw  it  plainly;  the  partridge  shooting  was  part  of 
it  —  was  to  make  Welsley  so  delightful  to  him  that  he  would 
not  want  to  give  up  the  home  at  Little  Cloisters.  What  was 
to  be  done?  He  disliked,  he  almost  hated,  the  thought  that 
his  return  should  necessitate  an  unpleasant  change  in  Rosa- 
mund's life.  Yet  something  within  him  told  him  that  he  ought 
to  be  firm.  He  was  obliged  to  live  in  London,  and  therefore 
it  was  only  natural  and  right  that  Rosamund  and  Robin  should 
live  in  London  too.  After  this  long  separation  he  ought  not  to 
have  to  face  a  semi-bachelor  life;  three  days  of  the  week  at 
Little  Cloisters  and  four  days  alone  in  Little  Market  Street. 
He  must  put  Rosamund  to  the  test.  That  faint  blush,  which 
he  would  not  soon  forget,  made  him  hope  that  she  would  come 
out  of  the  test  triumphantly. 

If  she  did,  how  splendid  that  would  be.  His  heart  yearned 
at  the  thought  of  a  Rosamund  submissive  to  his  wish,  unselfish 
out  of  the  depth  of  —  dared  he  think  of  it  as  a  new  growth  of 
love  within  her,  tending  towards  a  great  flowering  which  would 
bring  a  glory  into  two  lives?  But  if  she  yielded  at  once  to 
his  wish,  without  a  word  of  regret,  if  she  took  the  speedy  re- 
turn to  London  quite  simply  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  would  feel 
almost  irresistibly  inclined  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  to  say, 
"  No,  you  shall  stay  on  at  Little  Cloisters.  We'll  manage  some- 
how." Perhaps  he  could  stand  three  hours  daily  in  the  train. 
He  could  read  the  papers.  A  man  must  do  that.  As  well  do 
it  in  the  train  as  in  an  arm-chair  at  home. 


332  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

But  at  any  rate  he  would  put  her  to  the  test.  On  that  he  was 
resolved. 

At  dinner  that  night  Rosamund  told  him  she  had  already 
written  to  "  dear,  kind  Job  Crickendon  "  about  the  pony. 

"  You  might  shoot  on  Monday,"  she  said. 

"  Right  you  are.  When  we  hear  about  the  pony  we'll  tell 
Robin." 

"  Yes.  Not  till  it's  all  delightfully  settled.  Robin  on  horse- 
back! " 

Her  eyes  shone. 

"  I  can  see  him  already  with  a  gun  in  his  hand  old  enough 
to  shoot  with  you,"  she  added.  "  We  must  bring  him  up  to 
be  a  thorough  little  sportsman;  like  that  Greek  boy  Dirmi- 
kis." 

They  talked  about  Robin's  future  till  dinner  was  over. 
Dion  loved  their  talk,  but  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  in 
Rosamund's  forecast  town  life  held  no  place  at  all.  In  every- 
thing, or  in  almost  everything,  that  she  said  the  country  held 
pride  of  place.  There  was  not  a  word  about  Jenkins's  gym- 
nasium, or  the  Open  Air  Club  with  its  swimming  facilities,  or 
riding  in  the  Park,  or  fencing  at  Bernardi's.  Rosamund  seemed 
tacitly  to  assume  that  everything  which  was  Doric  was  connected 
with  country  life. 

On  the  following  morning  she  hastened  out  "  to  buy  riding 
gaiters  for  Robin."  She  had  his  "  size  "  with  her. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  about  Dion's  visit  to  Mrs.  Clarke. 
Rosamund's  lack  of  all  curiosity  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Clarke  and 
himself  gave  him  the  measure  of  her  faith  in  him.  Few  women, 
he  thought,  would  be  able  to  trust  a  man  so  completely.  And 
this  trust  was  the  more  remarkable  because  he  felt  positive 
that  Rosamund  distrusted  Mrs.  Clarke.  She  had  never  said 
so,  but  he  considered  that  by  her  conduct  she  had  proved  her 
distrust. 

It  was  a  great  virtue  in  Rosamund,  that  power  she  had  to  trust 
where  trust  was  deserved. 

Dear,  kind  Job  Crickendon  wrote  that  Master  Robin  could 
ride  his  pony,  Jane,  and  welcome.  The  letter  arrived  on  Sat- 
urday. Rosamund  read  it  aloud  to  Dion. 

"  The  people  about  here  are  the  dearest  people  I've  ever 
come  across,"  she  said.  "  So  different  from  people  in  Lon- 
don." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  people  in  London  ?  "  asked 
Dion. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  333 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  they're  more  artificial.  They  think  so 
much  about  clothes,  and  hats,  and  the  way  their  hair's  done." 

"The  men!" 

"  I  was  talking  of  the  women." 

"  But  is  Job  Crickendon  a  woman?  " 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  Dion.  You  know  what  I  mean.  The 
country  brings  out  the  best  that  is  in  people." 

"  That's  a  bad  look  out  for  me,  who've  lived  nearly  all  my 
life  in  London." 

"  You  would  be  yourself  anywhere.  Now  about  Robin. 
I've  got  the  gaiters.  They're  not  exactly  riding  gaiters  —  they 
don't  make  them  for  such  little  boys  —  but  they'll  do  beauti- 
fully. But  I  don't  want  to  tell  Robin  till  Monday  morning. 
You  see  he's  got  a  very  exciting  day  before  him  to-morrow,  and 
I  think  to  know  about  Monday  on  the  top  of  it  might  be  al- 
most too  much  for  him." 

"  But  what  excitement  is  there  to-morrow?  " 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Mr.  Thrush!" 

"  Oh,  of  course.     And  is  Robin  coming  to  the  Cathedral?  " 

"  Yes,  for  once.  It's  a  terribly  long  service  for  a  child,  but 
Robin  would  break  his  heart  if  he  didn't  see  Mr.  Thrush  walk 
in  the  procession  for  the  first  time." 

"  Then  we  won't  tell  him  till  Monday  morning.  I'll  hire  a 
dog-cart  and  we  can  all  drive  out  together." 

Again  she  gave  him  the  tender  look,  but  she  did  not  then  ex- 
plain what  it  meant. 

That  evening  they  dined  with  Canon  Wilton,  who  had  a  sur- 
prise in  store  for  them.  Esme  Darlington  had  come  down  to 
stay  with  him  over  Sunday,  and  to  have  a  glimpse  of  his  dear 
young  friends  in  Little  Cloisters. 

The  dinner  was  a  delightful  one.  Mr.  Darlington  was  be- 
nignly talkative  and  full  of  kindly  gossip;  Canon  Wilton  al- 
most beamed  upon  his  guests;  after  dinner  Rosamund  sang  song 
after  song  while  the  three  men  listened  and  looked.  She  sang 
her  very  best  for  them,  and  when  she  was  winding  a  lace 
shawl  about  her  hair  preparatory  to  the  little  walk  home,  Canon 
Wilton  thanked  her  in  a  way  that  brought  the  blood  to  her 
cheeks. 

"  You've  made  me  very  happy  to-night,"  he  said  finally. 
And  his  strong  bass  voice  was  softer  than  usual. 

"  I'm  glad." 

"  Not  only  by  your  singing,"  he  added. 


334  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly.     His  eyes  had  gone  to  Dion. 

"  Not  only  by  that." 

And  then  he  spoke  almost  in  a  murmur  to  her. 

"  He's  come  back  worth  it,"  he  said.  "  Good  night.  God 
bless  you  both." 

The  following  day  was  made  memorable  by  the  "  in- 
stallation "  of  Mr.  Thrush  as  a  verger  of  Welsley  Cathe- 
dral. 

The  Cathedral  was  not  specially  crowded  for  the  occasion, 
but  there  was  a  very  fair  congregation  when  Rosamund,  Dion 
and  Robin  (in  a  sailor  suit  with  wide  blue  trousers)  walked  in 
together  through  the  archway  in  the  rood-screen.  One  of  the 
old  established  vergers,  a  lordly  person  with  a  "  presence  "  and 
the  air  of  a  high  dignitary,  met  them  as  they  stepped  into  the 
choir,  and  wanted  to  put  them  into  stalls ;  but  Rosamund  begged 
for  seats  in  a  pew  just  beyond  the  lectern,  facing  the  doorway  by 
which  the  procession  came  into  the  choir. 

"  Robin  would  be  swallowed  up  in  a  stall,"  she  whispered  to 
Dion. 

And  they  both  looked  down  at  the  little  chap  tenderly,  and 
met  his  blue  eyes  turned  confidingly,  yet  almost  anxiously  too, 
up  to  them.  He  was  wondering  about  all  this  whispering  with 
the  verger,  and  hoping  that  nothing  had  happened  to  Mr. 
Thrush. 

They  found  perfect  seats  in  a  pew  just  beyond  the  deanery 
stalls.  Far  up  in  the  distance  above  them  one  bell,  the  five 
minutes'  bell,  was  chiming.  Its  voice  recalled  to  Rosamund 
the  "  ping-ping  "  of  the  bell  of  St.  Mary's  Church  which  had 
welcomed  her  in  the  fog.  How  much  had  happened  since  then ! 
Robin  was  nestling  against  her.  He  sat  between  her  and  his 
father,  and  was  holding  his  father's  hand.  By  dividing  Dion 
from  her  he  united  her  with  Dion.  She  thought  of  the  mys- 
tery of  the  Trinity,  and  then  of  their  mystery,  the  mystery  of 
father,  mother  and  child.  To-day  she  felt  very  happy,  and 
happy  in  an  unusual  way.  In  her  happiness  she  knew  that, 
in  a  sort  of  under  way,  she  had  almost  dreaded  Dion's  return. 
She  had  been  so  peacefully  content,  so  truly  at  rest  and  deeply 
serene  in  the  life  at  Welsley  with  Robin.  In  her  own  heart 
she  could  not  deny  that  she  had  loved  having  her  Robin  all 
to  herself;  and  she  had  loved,  too,  the  long  hours  of  solitude 
during  which,  in  day-dreams,  she  had  lived  the  religious  life. 
A  great  peace  had  enveloped  those  months  at  Welsley.  In  them 
she  had  mysteriously  grown  into  a  closer  relation  with  her  lit- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  335 

tie  son.  She  had  often  felt  in  those  months  that  this  mys- 
terious nearness  could  never  have  become  quite  what  it  had  be- 
come to  her  unless  she  had  been  left  alone  with  Robin.  It  was 
their  solitude  which  had  enabled  her  to  concentrate  wholly  on 
Robin,  and  it  was  surely  this  exclusive  concentration  on  Robin 
which  had  drawn  him  so  very  close  to  her.  All  the  springs  of 
his  love  had  flowed  towards  her. 

She  had  been  just  a  wee  bit  frightened  about  Dion's  return. 

And  that  was  why  at  this  moment,  while  the  five  minutes' 
bell  was  ringing,  she  felt  so  happy.  For  Dion's  return  had 
not  made  any  difference;  or,  if  it  had  made  a  difference,  she 
did  not  actively  regret  it.  The  child's  new  adoration  of  his 
father  had  made  her  care  more  for  Dion,  and  even  more  for 
Robin;  for  she  felt  that  Robin  was  unconsciously  loving  in  his 
father  a  strength  and  a  nobility  which  were  new  in  Dion,  which 
had  been  born  far  away  across  the  sea.  War  destroys,  and  all 
the  time  war  is  destroying  it  is  creating.  Robin  was  holding  a 
little  bit  of  what  the  South  African  War  had  created  as  he  held 
his  father's  hand.  For  are  not  the  profound  truths  of  the  soul 
conveyed  through  all  its  temple? 

"  Happiness  is  a  mystery,"  thought  Rosamund. 

And  then  she  silently  thanked  God  that  this  mystery  was 
within  herself,  and  that  she  felt  it  in  Robin  and  in  Dion. 

She  looked  down  at  her  little  son,  and  as  she  met  his  soft 
and  yet  ardent  eyes, —  full  of  innocent  anxiety,  and  almost  of 
awe,  about  Mr.  Thrush, —  she  blessed  the  day  when  she  had  de- 
cided to  marry  Dion,  when  she  had  renounced  certain  dreams, 
when  she  had  taken  the  advice  of  the  man  who  was  now  her 
friend  and  had  resolved  to  tread  that  path  of  life  in  which  she 
could  have  a  companion. 

Her  companion  had  given  her  another  companion.  In  the 
old  gray  Cathedral,  full  of  the  silent  voices  of  men  who  had 
prayed  and  been  gathered  to  their  rest  long  since,  Rosamund 
looked  down  the  way  of  happiness,  and  she  could  not  see  its 
end. 

The  five  minutes'  bell  stopped  and  Robin  sat  up  very  straight 
in  the  pew.  The  Bishop's  wife  proceeded  to  her  stall  with  a 
friend.  Robin  stared  reverently,  alert  for  the  tribute  to  Mr. 
Thrush.  Miss  Piper  glided  in  sideways,  holding  her  head 
down  as  if  she  were  searching  for  a  dropped  pin  on  the  pave- 
ment. She,  too,  was  an  acquaintance  of  Robin's,  and  he  whis- 
pered to  his  mother: 

"  Miss  Piper's  come  to  see  Mr.  Thrush." 


336  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Yes,  darling." 

What  a  darling  he  was  in  his  anxiety  for  his  old  friend! 
She  looked  at  the  freckles  on  the  bridge  of  his  little  nose  and 
longed  to  kiss  them.  This  was  without  doubt  the  most  won- 
derful day  in  Robin's  life  so  far.  She  looked  ahead  and  saw 
how  many  wonderful  days  for  Robin!  And  over  his  fair  hair 
she  glanced  at  Dion,  and  she  felt  Dion's  thought  hand  in  hand 
with  hers. 

A  long  sigh  came  from  the  organ,  and  then  Mr.  Dickinson 
was  at  work  preluding  Mr.  Thrush.  Distant  steps  sounded  on 
the  pavement  behind  the  choir  screen  coming  from  some  hid- 
den place  at  the  east  end  of  the  Cathedral.  The  congregation 
stood  up.  All  this,  in  Robin's  mind,  was  for  Mr.  Thrush. 
Still  holding  his  father's  hand  tightly  he  joined  in  the  congrega- 
tion's movement.  The  solemnly  pacing  steps  drew  nearer. 
Robin  felt  very  small,  and  the  pew  seemed  very  deep  to  him  now 
that  he  was  standing  up.  There  was  a  fat  red  footstool  by  his 
left  leg.  He  peeped  at  his  father  and  whispered : 

"May  I,  Fa?" 

Dion  bent  down,  took  him  under  the  arms  and  lifted  him 
gently  on  to  the  footstool  just  as  the  vergers  appeared  with  their 
wands,  walking  nobly  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 

At  Welsley  the  ordinary  vergers  did  not  march  up  the  choir 
to  the  return  stalls,  but  divided  and  formed  up  in  two  lines 
at  the  entrance,  making  a  dignified  avenue  down  which  the 
choristers  and  the  clergy  passed  with  calm  insouciance  into  the 
full  view  of  the  waiting  congregation.  Only  two  picked  men, 
with  wands  of  silver,  preceded  the  dignitaries  to  their  massive 
stalls.  Mr.  Thrush  was  —  though  not  in  Robin's  eyes  —  an 
ordinary  verger.  He  would  not  therefore  penetrate  into  the 
choir.  But,  mercifully,  he  with  one  other  had  been  placed  in 
the  forefront  of  the  procession.  He  led  the  way,  and  Robin  and 
his  parents  had  a  full  and  satisfying  view  of  him  as  the  pro- 
cession curved  round  and  made  for  the  screen.  In  his  dark  and 
flowing  robe  he  came  on  majestical,  holding  his  wand  quite  per- 
fectly, and  looking  not  merely  self-possessed  but  —  as  Rosa- 
mund afterwards  put  it — "  almost  uplifted." 

Robin  began  to  breathe  hard  as  he  gazed.  From  Mr. 
Thrush's  shoulders  the  robe  swung  with  his  lordly  movements. 
He  reached  the  entrance.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  pre- 
vent him  from  floating  on,  in  all  the  pride  and  dignity  of  his 
new  office,  to  the  very  steps  of  the  Dean's  stall.  But  discipline 
held  him.  He  stood  aside;  he  came  to  rest  with  his  wand  be- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  337 

fore  him;  he  let  the  procession  pass  by,  and  then,  almost  mys- 
tically, he  evaporated  with  his  brother  vergers. 

Rosamund  sent  a  quick  look  to  Dion,  a  look  of  subdued  and 
yet  bright  triumph.  Then  she  glanced  down  at  Robin.  She 
had  been  scarcely  less  excited,  less  strung  up,  than  he.  But  she 
had  seen  the  fruit  of  her  rehearsals  and  now  she  was  satisfied. 
Robin,  she  saw,  was  more  than  satisfied.  His  eyes  were  round 
with  the  glory  of  it  all. 

That  was  the  happiest  Sunday  Dion  had  ever  spent,  and  it 
was  fated  to  close  in  a  happiness  welling  up  out  of  the  very 
deeps  of  the  heart. 

Canon  Wilton  and  Esme  Darlington  came  in  to  tea,  and 
Mr.  Thrush  was  entertained  at  a  sumptuous  repast  in  the 
nursery  "  between  the  services."  Robin  presided  at  it  with  anx- 
ious rapture,  being  now  just  a  little  in  awe  of  his  faithful  old 
friend.  His  nurse,  who  approved  of  Mr.  Thrush,  and  was 
much  impressed  by  the  fact  that  after  two  interviews  with  the 
Dean  he  had  been  appointed  to  a  post  in  the  Cathedral,  sat 
down  to  it  too;  and  Rosamund  and  Dion  looked  in  to  congratu- 
late Mr.  Thrush,  and  to  tell  him  how  delighted  they  were  with 
his  bearing  in  the  procession  and  his  delicately  adroit  manipu- 
lation of  his  wand.  Mr.  Thrush  received  their  earnest  con- 
gratulations with  the  quiet  dignity  of  one  who  felt  that  they  did 
not  spring  from  exaggeration  of  sentiment.  Like  all  great  art- 
ists he  knew  when  he  had  done  well.  But  when  Rosamund  and 
Dion  were  about  to  retire,  and  to  leave  him  with  Robin  and  the 
nurse  to  the  tea  and  well-buttered  toast,  he  suddenly  emerged 
into  an  emotion  which  did  him  credit. 

"Madam!  "  he  said  to  Rosamund,  in  a  rather  hoarse  and 
tremulous  voice. 

"  Now  don't  trouble  to  get  up  again,  dear  Mr.  Thrush.  Yes, 
what  is  it?" 

Mr.  Thrush  looked  down  steadily  at  the  "  round "  which 
glistened  on  his  plate.  Something  fell  upon  it. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Thrush !  "  began  Robin,  and  paused  in  dis- 
may, looking  up  at  his  mother. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Thrush  again,  still  looking  at  the 
"  round,"  "  I  haven't  felt  as  I  do  now  since  I  stood  behind  my 
counter  just  off  Hanover  Square,  respected.  Yes,"  he  said,  and 
his  old  voice  quavered  upwards,  gaining  in  strength,  "  respected 
by  all  who  knew  me.  She  was  with  me  then,  and  now  she  isn't 
But  I  feel  —  I  feel  —  I'm  respected  again." 

Something  else  fell  upon  the  toast. 


338  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  And  it's  all  your  doing,  madam.  I  —  all  I  can  say  is  that 
I  —  all  I  can  say "  His  voice  failed. 

Rosamund  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  There,  Mr.  Thrush,  there!     I  know,  I  know  just  how  it  is." 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Thrush,  with  quavering  emphasis,  "  one 
can  depend  upon  you,  a  man  can  depend  upon  you.  What 
you  undertake  you  carry  through,  even  if  it's  only  the  putting  on 
his  feet  of  —  of  —  I  never  thought  to  be  a  verger,  never.  I 
never  could  have  looked  up  to  such  a  thing  but  for  you.  But 
Mr.  Dean  he  said  to  me,  '  Mr.  Thrush,  when  Mrs.  Leith  speaks 
up  for  a  man,  even  an  archbishop  has  to  listen.' ' 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Thrush.  Robin,  give  Mr.  Thrush  the 
brown  sugar.  He  always  likes  brown  sugar  in  his  tea." 

"  It's  more  nourishing,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Thrush,  with  a 
sudden  change  from  emotion  to  quiet  self-confidence.  "  It  does 
more  work  for  the  stomach.  A  chemist  knows." 

"  Dear  old  man !  "  said  Rosamund,  when  she  and  Dion  were 
outside  in  the  passage.  "  To  say  all  that  before  nurse  —  it  was 
truly  generous." 

And  she  frankly  wiped  her  eyes.     A  moment  later  she  added : 

"  I  pray  he  doesn't  fall  back  into  his  little  failing!  " 

She  looked  at  Dion  interrogatively.  He  looked  at  her,  un- 
derstanding, he  believed,  the  inquiry  in  her  eyes.  Before  he 
could  say  anything  the  kind  and  careful  voice  of  Mr.  Darlington 
was  heard  below,  asking: 

"  Is  Mrs.  Dion  Leith  at  home?  " 

Mr.  Darlington  was  delighted  with  Little  Cloisters.  He  said 
it  had  a  "  flavor  which  was  quite  unique,"  and  was  so  enthusi- 
astic that  Rosamund  became  almost  excited.  Dion  saw  that 
she  counted  Mr.  Darlington  as  an  ally.  When  Mr.  Darling- 
ton's praises  sounded  she  could  not  refrain  from  glancing  at  her 
husband,  and  when  at  length  their  guests  got  up  to  go  "  with 
great  reluctance,"  she  begged  them  to  come  and  dine  on  the 
following  night. 

Mr.  Darlington  raised  his  ragged  eyebrows  and  looked  at 
Canon  Wilton. 

"  I'm  by  way  of  going  back  to  town  to-morrow  afternoon," 
he  began  tentatively. 

"  Stay  another  night  and  let  us  accept,"  said  Canon  Wilton 
heartily. 

"  But  I'm  dining  with  dear  Lavinia  Barkhamstead,  one  of 
my  oldest  friends.  It's  not  a  set  dinner,  but  I  should  hardly 
like " 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  339 

"For  once!  "  pleaded  Rosamund. 

Mr.  Darlington  wavered.  He  looked  round  the  room  and 
then  at  Rosamund  and  Dion. 

"  It's  most  attractive  here,"  he  murmured,  "  and  Lady  Berk- 
hamstead  lives  in  the  Cromwell  Road,  at  the  far  end.  I  won- 
der  " 

"It's  settled!"  Rosamund  exclaimed.  "Dinner  at  half- 
past  seven.  We  keep  early  hours  here,  and  Dion  goes  shooting 
to-morrow  with  Robin  and  may  get  sleepy  towards  ten  o'clock." 

After  explanations  about  Robin,  Mr.  Darlington  gracefully 
yielded.  He  would  wire  to  dear  Lavinia  Berkhamstead  and  ex- 
plain matters. 

As  he  and  Canon  Wilton  walked  back  to  the  Canon's  house 
he  said: 

"  What  dear  people  those  are!  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  Canon. 

"  Happiness  has  brought  out  the  very  best  in  them  both. 
Leith  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  she,  of  course,  is  unique,  a 
piece  of  radiance,  as  her  beautiful  mother  was.  It  does  one 
good  to  see  such  a  happy  household." 

He  gently  glowed,  and  presently  added: 

*'  You  and  I,  dear  Canon,  have  missed  something." 

After  a  moment  the  Canon's  strong  voice  came  gravely  out  of 
the  winter  darkness: 

"  You  think  great  happiness  the  noblest  education?  " 

Mr.  Darlington  began  to  pull  his  beard. 

"  You  mean,  my  dear  Wilton ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  the  education  of  happiness  is  the  education 
most  likely  to  bring  out  the  greatest  possibilities  of  the  soul?  " 

This  was  the  sort  of  very  definite  question  that  Mr.  Darling- 
ton preferred  to  get  away  from  if  possible,  and  he  was  just  pre- 
paring to  "  hedge,"  when,  fortunately,  they  ran  into  the  Dean, 
and  the  conversation  deviated  to  a  discussion  concerning  the 
effect  the  pursuit  of  scientific  research  was  likely  to  have  upon 
religious  belief. 

After  supper  that  evening  —  supper  instead  of  dinner  on  Sun- 
days was  the  general  rule  in  Welsley  —  Dion  lit  his  pipe.  It 
had  been  a  very  happy  day.  He  wished  the  happiness  to  last 
till  sleep  came  to  Rosamund  and  to  him;  nevertheless  he  was 
resolved  to  take  a  risk,  and  to  take  it  now  before  they  went  to 
bed,  while  they  still  had  two  quiet  hours  before  them.  He 
looked  at  Rosamund  and  reluctance  surged  up  in  him,  but  he 
beat  it  back.  Something  told  him  that  he  had  been  allowed 


340  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

to  come  back  from  South  Africa  in  order  that  he  might  build 
firm  foundations.  The  perfect  family  life  must  be  set  upon 
rock.  He  meant  to  get  through  to  the  rock  if  possible.  Rosa- 
mund and  he  were  beginning  again.  Now  surely  was  the  day 
of  salvation  if  he  played  the  man,  the  man  instead  of  merely 
the  lover. 

"  This  has  been  one  of  the  happiest  days  of  my  life,"  he  said. 

He  was  standing  by  the  fire.  Rosamund  was  sitting  on  a 
low  chair  doing  some  embroidery.  Gold  thread  gleamed  against 
a  rough  cream-colored  ground  in  her  capable  hands. 

"  I'm  so  thankful  you  like  Welsley,"  she  said. 

"  Won't  you  hate  leaving  Welsley?  "  he  asked. 

Rosamund  went  on  quietly  working  for  a  moment.  Perhaps 
she  bent  a  little  lower  over  the  embroidery. 

"  I've  made  a  great  many  friends  here,"  she  said  at  length, 
"  and " 

She  paused. 

"  Yes  —  do  tell  me,  Rose." 

"  There's  something  here  that  I  care  for  very  much." 

"  Is  it  the  atmosphere  of  religion?  There's  a  great  deal  here 
that  suggests  the  religious  life." 

"Yes;  it's  that  I  care  for." 

"  I  was  almost  afraid  of  meeting  you  here  when  I  came  back, 
Rose.  I  remembered  what  you  had  once  told  me,  that  you 
had  had  a  great  longing  to  enter  the  religious  life.  I  was  half 
afraid  that,  living  here  all  alone  with  Robin,  you  might  have 
become  —  I  don't  know  exactly  how  to  put  it  —  become  clois- 
tral. I  didn't  want  to  find  you  a  sort  of  nun  when  I  came 
back." 

He  spoke  with  a  gentle  lightness. 

"  It  might  have  been  so,  mightn't  it?  " 

She  remembered  her  dreams  in  the  walled-in  garden  almost 
guiltily. 

"  No,"  she  said  steadily  —  and  as  she  spoke  she  felt  as  if 
she  were  firmly  putting  those  dreams  behind  her  forever. 
"  Motherhood  changes  a  woman  more  than  men  can  ever  know." 

"I  —  I  know  it's  all  right.  Then  you  won't  hate  me  for  tak- 
ing you  both  back  to  Little  Market  Street  in  a  few  days?  " 

He  saw  the  color  deepen  in  her  face.  For  an  instant  she 
went  on  working.  Then  she  put  the  work  down,  sat  back  in  the 
low  chair,  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"  No,  of  course  we  must  go  back.  And  I  was  very  happy  in 
Little  Market  Street." 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  341 

And  then  quickly,  before  he  could  say  anything,  she  began 
to  recall  the  pleasant  details  of  their  life  in  Westminster,  dwell- 
ing upon  every  household  joy,  and  everything  that  though 
"  Londony  "  had  been  delightful.  Having  conquered,  with  an 
effort  which  had  cost  her  more  than  even  Dion  knew,  a  terri- 
ble reluctance  she  gave  herself  to  her  own  generous  impulse  with 
enthusiasm.  Rosamund  could  not  do  things  by  halves.  She 
might  obstinately  refrain  from  treading  a  path,  but  if  once  she 
had  set  her  feet  on  it  she  hurried  eagerly  along  it.  Something 
to-night  had  made  her  decide  on  treading  the  path  of  unselfish- 
ness, of  generosity.  When  Dion  lit  his  pipe  she  had  not  known 
she  was  going  to  tread  it.  It  seemed  to  her  almost  as  if  she  had 
found  herself  upon  the  path  without  knowing  how  she  had  got 
there.  Now  without  hesitation  she  went  forward. 

"  It  was  delightful  in  Westminster,"  she  concluded,  "  and  it 
will  be  delightful  there  again." 

"  And  all  your  friends  here?     And  Mr.  Thrush?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Thrush  will  do,"  she  said,  with  a 
change  to  deep  gravity. 

The  two  lines  showed  in  her  pure  forehead. 

"  Tm  so  afraid  that  without  me  he  will  fall  back.  But  per- 
haps I  can  run  down  now  and  then  just  for  the  day  to  keep 
him  up  to  his  promise,  poor  dear  old  man." 

"  And  your  friends?  " 

"  Oh,  well  —  of  course  I  shall  miss  them.  But  I  suppose 
there  is  always  something  to  miss.  There  must  be  a  crumpled 
rose  leaf.  I  am  far  more  fortunate  than  almost  any  woman  I 
know." 

Dion  put  down  his  pipe. 

"  I  simply  can't  do  it,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"  Take  you  away  from  here.  It  seems  your  right  place.  You 
love  it;  Robin  loves  it.  What's  to  be  done?  Shall  I  run  up 
and  down  ?  " 

"  You  can't.     It's  too  far." 

"  I  have  to  read  the  papers  somewhere.  Why  not  in  the 
train?" 

"Three  hours  or  more!  It's  impossible.  If  only  Welsley 
were  nearer  London!  But,  then,  it  wouldn't  be  Welsley." 

"  Now  I  know  you'll  go  I  can't  take  you  away." 

"  Did  you  —  what  did  you  think  I  should  do?  " 

"How  could  I  tell?" 

He  sat  down  and  took  her  hands. 


342  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Rose,  you've  made  this  the  happiest  day  of  my  life." 

"  Do  you  mean  because ?  " 

She  stopped.  Her  face  became  very  grave,  almost  severe. 
She  looked  at  him,  but  he  felt  that  she  was  really  looking  in- 
ward upon  herself.  When  at  last  he  let  go  her  hands  she  said: 

"  Dion,  you  are  very  different  from  what  you  were  when  you 
went  to  the  war.  If  I  seem  different,  too,  it's  because  of  that, 
I  think." 

"  War  changes  women,  perhaps,  as  well  as  men,"  he  said  ten- 
derly. 

They  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  quiet  old  room  and  talked  of  the 
future  and  of  all  the  stages  of  Robin:  as  schoolboy,  as  youth, 
as  budding  undergraduate,  as  man. 

"  Perhaps  hell  be  a  soldier-man  as  his  father  has  been,"  said 
Rosamund. 

"Do  you  wish  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said : 

"  Yes,  if  it  helps  him  as  I  think  it  has  helped  you.  I  expect 
when  men  go  to  fight  for  their  country  they  go,  perhaps  without 
knowing  it,  to  fight  just  for  themselves." 

"  I  believe  everything  we  do  for  others,  without  any  thought 
of  ourselves,  we  do  for  ourselves,"  he  said,  very  seriously. 

"  Altruism!  But  then  I  ought  to  live  in  London  for  you,  and 
you  in  Welsley  for  me." 

They  both  laughed.  Nothing  had  been  absolutely  decided; 
and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  through  that  laughter  a  decision  had  been 
reached  about  everything  really  important. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  DOGCART  from  Harrington's  had  been  ordered  to  be 
"  round "  the  next  day  at  noon.     Dion  had  decided 
against  a  long  day's  shooting  on  Robin's  account.     He 
must  not  tire  the  little  chap.     In  truth  it  would  be  impossible  to 
take  the  shooting  seriously,  with  Robin  there  all  the  time,  cling- 
ing on  to  Jane  and  having  to  be  looked  after. 

"  It's  going  to  be  Robin's  day,"  Dion  said  the  next  morning. 
"  When  are  you  going  to  tell  him  ?  " 

"  Directly  after  breakfast.     By  the  way,  Dion," —  she  spoke 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  343 

carelessly,  and  was  opening  a  letter  while  she  spoke, — "  I'm 
not  coming." 

4  Oh,  but  you  must!  " 

'  No;  I'll  stay  quietly  here.     I  have  lots  of  things  to  do." 

'  But  Robin's  first  day  as  a  sportsman!  "  * 

'  He  isn't  going  to  shoot,"  she  said,  with  a  mother's  smile. 

'  Why  won't  you  come  ?  You've  got  some  very  special  rea- 
son." 

"  Perhaps  I  have,  but  I'm  not  going  to  tell  it.  Women  aren't 
wanted  everywhere.  Sometimes  a  couple  of  men  like  to  be 
alone." 

"  Robin's  a  man  now?  " 

"  Yes,  a  little  man.  I  do  hope  the  gaiters  will  fit  him.  I 
haven't  dared  to  try  them  on  yet.  And  I've  got  him  the  dear- 
est little  whip  you  ever  saw." 

"  Jane  will  have  to  look  to  her  paces.  I'm  sorry  you're  not 
coming,  Rose." 

But  he  did  not  try  to  persuade  her.  He  believed  that  she 
had  a  very  sweet  reason  behind  her  abstention.  She  had  had 
Robin  all  to  herself  for  many  months;  perhaps  she  thought  the 
father  ought  to  have  his  turn  now,  perhaps  to-day  she  was  hand- 
ing over  her  little  son  to  his  father  for  the  education  which  al- 
ways comes  from  a  man.  Her  sudden  unselfishness  —  Dion 
believed  it  was  that  —  touched  him  to  the  heart.  But  it  made 
him  long  to  do  something,  many  things,  for  her. 

"  I'm  determined  that  you  and  Welsley  shan't  part  from  each 
other  forever,"  he  said.  "  We'll  hit  on  some  compromise.  This 
house  is  on  our  hands,  anyhow,  till  the  spring." 

"  Perhaps  we  could  sublet  it,"  said  Rosamund,  trying  to  speak 
with  brisk  cheerfulness. 

"  We'll  talk  it  over  again  to-night." 

"  And  now  for  Robin's  gaiters!  " 

They  fitted  perfectly;  "  miraculously  "  was  Rosamund's  word 
for  the  way  they  fitted. 

"  His  legs  might  a-been  poured  into  them  almost,  a-dear," 
was  nurse's  admirably  descriptive  comment  on  the  general  effect 
produced. 

Robin  looked  at  his  legs  with  deep  solemnity.  When  the 
great  project  for  this  day  of  days  had  been  broken  to  him  he 
had  fallen  upon  awe.  His  prattling  ardors  had  subsided,  stilled 
by  a  greater  joy  than  any  that  had  called  them  forth  in  his 
complex  past  of  a  child.  Now  he  gazed  at  his  legs,  which  were 
stretched  out  at  right  angles  to  his  body  on  a  nursery  chair,  as 


344  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

if  they  were  not  his.  Then  he  looked  up  at  his  mother,  his 
father,  nurse;  then  once  more  down  at  his  legs.  His  eyes  were 
inquiring.  They  seemed  to  say,  "  Can  it  be?  " 

"  Bless  him !  He  can't  hardly  believe  in  it !  "  muttered  nurse. 
"  And  no  wonder." 

A  small  sigh  came  from  Robin.  To  his  father  and  mother  it 
came  like  the  whisper  of  happiness,  that  good  fairy  which  men 
cannot  quite  get  rid  of,  try  as  they  may.  Two  small  hands 
went  down  to  the  little  gaiters  and  felt  them  carefully.  Then 
Robin  looked  up  again,  this  time  at  his  father,  and  smiled.  In- 
stinctively he  connected  his  father  with  these  wonderful  appur- 
tenances, although  his  mother  had  bought  them  and  put  them 
on  him.  With  that  smile  he  gave  the  day  to  his  father,  and 
Dion  took  it  with  just  a  glance  at  Rosamund  —  a  glance  which 
deprecated  and  which  accepted. 

When  the  dogcart  was  announced  by  Annie,  with  beaming 
eyes,  Dion  got  his  gun,  Robin  received  his  whip, —  a  miniature 
hunting-crop  with  a  horn  handle, —  his  cap  was  pulled  down 
firmly  on  his  head  by  Rosamund,  and  they  set  forth  to  the 
Green  Court.  Here  they  found  Harrington's  most  fiery  horse 
harnessed  to  quite  a  sporting  dogcart  and  doing  his  very  best 
to  champ  his  bit.  From  the  ground  Robin  looked  up  at  him 
with  solemn  eyes.  The  occasion  was  almost  too  great.  His 
father  with  a  gun,  his  own  legs  in  gaiters,  the  whip  which  he 
felt  in  his  hand,  the  packet  of  sandwiches  thrust  tenderly  by 
nurse  into  the  pocket  of  his  little  covert  coat,  and  now  this 
glorious  animal  and  this  high  and  unusual  carriage  gleaming 
with  light-colored  wood  between  its  immense  wheels!  There 
was  almost  too  much  of  meaning,  too  much  of  suggestion  in  it 
all.  No  words  came  to  him.  He  could  only  feel  and  gaze. 

A  stableman  with  hard  lips  stood  sentinel  in  front  of  the 
fiery  horse,  and  put  up  a  red  forefinger  on  the  right  side  of  his 
temple  to  give  them  greeting. 

"  I'll  get  in  first,"  said  Dion  to  Rosamund,  "  and  then  you 
can  hand  me  up  Robin." 

He  put  in  his  gun  and  took  the  reins,  while  Robin  instinc- 
tively extended  his  arms  so  that  his  mother  could  take  hold  of 
him  under  them. 

"  Up  we  go!  "  cried  Dion. 

And  he  mounted  lightly  to  the  high  seat. 

"Now,  Robin!" 

Rosamund  took  hold  of  Robin,  whose  short  arms  were  still 
solemnly  outstretched.  She  was  about  to  lift  him  into  the  cart, 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  345 

but,  overcome  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  paused,  put  one 
arm  under  the  little  legs  in  the  gaiters,  drew  him  to  her  and 
pressed  her  lips  on  the  freckled  bridge  of  his  tiny  nose. 

"  You  darling!  "  she  whispered,  so  that  only  he  could  hear. 
"  I  love  you  in  your  gaiters  better  than  I  ever  loved  you  be- 
fore." Then  she  handed  him  up  to  his  father  as  if  he  were  a 
dear  little  parcel. 

"  That's  it,"  said  Dion.  "  Put  your  arm  round  here,  boy. 
Hold  on  tight!  Let  him  go!  " 

The  hard-lipped  man  stood  to  one  side  and  the  horse  — 
well,  moved.  Robin  gazed  down  at  his  mother  with  the  faint 
hint  of  an  almost  shy  smile,  Dion  saluted  her  with  his  whip, 
and  the  glorious  day  was  fairly  begun.  Traveling  with  a  sort 
of  rakish  deliberation  the  dogcart  skirted  the  velvet  lawn  of  the 
Green  Court  and  disappeared  from  sight  beneath  the  ancient 
archway. 

Rosamund  sighed  as  she  turned  to  walk  back  to  Little  Clois- 
ters. She  had  made  a  real  sacrifice  that  day  in  giving  up 
Robin  to  his  father  and  staying  at  home.  Secretly  she  had 
longed  to  go  with  her  "  men-folk  "  upon  the  great  expedition, 
to  be  present  at  Robin's  initiation  into  the  Doric  life.  But 
something  very  dear  in  Dion  had  prompted  her  to  be  unselfish. 
Dion  was  certainly  much  more  impressive  to  her  since  his  re- 
turn from  the  war.  Even  the  dear  things  in  him  meant  more. 
There  seemed  to  be  more  muscle  in  them  than  there  had  been 
when  he  went  away. 

"  Even  our  virtues  can  be  weak  or  strong,  I  suppose,"  Rosa- 
mund thought,  as  she  turned  into  the  walled  garden  which  she 
loved  so  much,  and  there  followed  the  thought: 

"  I  wonder  which  mine  are." 

She  meant  to  spend  that  day  in  saying  good-by  to  Welsley. 
Dion  had  said  they  would  talk  things  over  again  that  night; 
probably  he  would  be  ready  to  fall  in  with  any  desire  of  hers, 
but  she  felt  almost  sure  that  she  would  not  tell  him  how  much 
she  wished  to  stay  on  at  Little  Cloisters. 

An  obscure  feeling  had  come  to  her  that  perhaps  it  was  not 
quite  safe  for  her  to  remain  any  longer  here  in  the  arms  of  the 
Precincts.  Looking  backward  to  that  which  has  been  deliber- 
ately renounced  is  surely  an  act  of  weakness. 

Even  the  imaginative  effort  to  live  a  life  that  has  been  put 
aside  is  a  feeble  concession  to  an  inclination  at  least  partially 
morbid.  Rosamund  was  in  fact  a  mother,  and  yet  here  in  Wels- 
ley, she  had,  as  it  were,  sometimes  played  at  being  one  of  those 


346  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Sisters  "  who  are  content  to  be  brides  of  heaven  and  mothers 
of  the  poor.  For  her  own  sake  it  was  doubtless  best  to  renounce 
Welsley  at  once.  The  new  meaning  of  Dion  would  help  her  to 
do  that  bravely.  He  had  often  been  unselfish  for  her;  she 
would  try  to  counter  his  unselfishness  with  hers. 

When  she  was  in  the  house  again  she  had  a  colloquy  with 
the  cook  about  the  dinner  for  that  evening.  As  Esme  Darling- 
ton had  given  up  an  engagement  in  London  to  come  to  Little 
Cloisters,  her  dinner  must  be  something  special.  She  told  the 
cook  so  in  her  cordial,  almost  confidential,  way,  and  they  "  put 
their  heads  together  "  and  devised  a  menu  full  of  attractions. 
That  done  she  had  the  day  to  herself.  Dion  and  Robin  would 
come  home  some  time  in  the  afternoon,  and  they  were  all  going 
to  have  tea  together  up  in  the  nursery.  It  might  be  at  half-past 
four,  it  might  be  at  half-past  five.  Till  then  she  was  free. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  going  to  see  some  of  her  friends, 
of  telling  Mrs.  Dickinson  and  other  adherents  of  hers  that  her 
days  in  Welsley  were  numbered.  But  a  reluctance  seized  her. 
She  felt  a  desire  to  be  alone.  WThat  if  instead  of  saying  good-by 
to  Welsley,  she  said  good-by  to  her  dreams  in  Welsley?  She 
summoned  Annie  and  told  her  not  to  let  any  one  in. 

"  I'm  going  to  spend  a  quiet  day,  Annie,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Annie,  with  an  air  of  intelligent  compre- 
hension. 

"  Though  what  else  any  one  ever  does  in  old  Welsley  I'm  sure 
I  couldn't  say,"  she  aftenvards  remarked  to  the  cook. 

"  You're  a  cockney  at  'eart,  Annie,"  repeated  that  function- 
ary. "  The  country  says  nothing  to  you.  You  want  the  parks, 
that's  what  you  want." 

"  Well,  I  was  brought  up  in  'em,  as  you  may  say,"  said  An- 
nie, whose  father  had  been  a  park-keeper,  and  whose  mother  and 
grandmother  were  natives  of  Westbourne  Grove. 

By  a  quiet  day  Rosamund  meant  a  day  lived  through  in 
absolute  solitude,  a  day  of  meditation  in  the  cloistered  garden. 
She  would  not  have  any  lunch.  Then  she  would  have  a  better 
appetite  for  the  nursery  tea  at  which  Robin  would  relate  to  her 
all  the  doings  of  the  greatest  day  of  his  life.  Precious,  precious 
Robin ! 

She  went  down  into  the  garden. 

It  was  a  mistily  bright  day  of  November.  The  sun  shone 
through  a  delicate  veil.  The  air  was  cold  but  not  sharp. 
Neither  autumn  nor  winter  ruled.  It  seemed  like  a  day  which 
had  slipped  into  an  interstice  between  two  seasons,  a  day  that 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  347 

was  somehow  rare  and  exceptional,  holding  a  faint  stillness 
that  was  strange.  There  was  in  it  something  of  the  far  away. 
If  a  fairy  day  can  be  cold,  it  was  like  a  fairy  day.  On  such  a 
day  one  treads  lightly  and  softly  and  at  moments  feels  almost 
as  if  out  of  the  body. 

Lightly  and  softly  Rosamund  went  to  and  fro  between  the 
high  and  mossy  walls  of  the  garden,  keeping  to  the  straight 
paths.  When  the  bells  chimed  in  the  tower  of  the  Cathedral  they 
sounded  much  farther  away  than  usual;  the  song  of  the  thrush 
somewhere  in  the  elder  bush  near  the  garden  door  was  curiously 
remote;  the  caw-caw  of  the  rooks  dropped  down  as  if  from  an 
immeasurable  distance.  Through  the  mist  the  sunshine  filtered, 
lightly  pale  and  pure,  a  sensitive  sunshine  which  would  surely 
not  stay  very  long  in  Rosamund's  garden. 

A  sort  of  thin  stillness  had  fallen  upon  the  world. 

And  so  another  chapter  of  life  was  closing,  the  happy  chap- 
ter of  Welsley! 

Something  of  sadness  accompanied  Rosamund  along  the 
straight  paths,  the  delicate  melancholy  which  attends  the  fare- 
wells of  one  who  has  regret  but  who  has  hope. 

With  the  new  Dion  and  with  the  old  Robin,  the  Robin 
blessedly  unchanged,  she  could  not  be  really  unhappy.  Yet  it 
was  sad  to  give  up  the  dear  garden  and  all  the  dreams  which 
belonged  to  it.  Far  down  in  her  —  she  knew  it  —  there  was 
certainly  a  recluse.  She  could  see  the  black  figure,  the  sheltered 
face,  the  eyes  looking  down,  the  praying  hands.  It  would  have 
been  very  natural  to  her  long  ago  to  seek  God  in  the  way  of  the 
recluse.  But  not  now! 

Hermes  and  the  child  came  before  her.  In  the  stillness  of 
Welsley  it  was  as  if  she  heard  the  green  stillness  of  Elis.  She 
was  quite  alone  in  that  inner  room  where  stood  the  messenger 
with  the  wings  on  his  sandals.  Dion  had  stayed  outside.  He 
had  been  unselfish  that  day  as  to-day  she  had  been  unselfish. 
For  she  had  wanted  to  go  with  the  little  gaiters.  She  could 
see  the  smiling  look  of  eternity  upon  the  face  of  the  messenger. 
He  had  no  fear  for  the  child.  He  had  mounted  on  winged  feet 
to  the  region  where  no  fear  is.  How  his  benign  and  eternal 
calm  had  sunk  into  Rosamund's  soul  that  day  in  Elis.  Far 
off  she  had  seen  through  the  frame  of  the  Museum  doorway 
a  bit  of  the  valley  in  which  the  Hermes  had  dwelt,  and  stretch- 
ing across  it  a  branch  of  wild  olive.  She  had  looked  at  it  and 
had  thought  of  the  victor's  Crown,  a  crown  which  had  even  been 
won  by  a  boy  at  the  games. 


348  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Already  then  a  fore-knowledge  of  Robin  had  been  in  her. 

She  had  gazed  at  the  branch  and  loved  it.  Certainly  she 
had  been  dreaming,  as  she  had  afterwards  told  Dion,  and  in 
her  dream  had  been  Hermes  and  the  child,  and  surely  another 
child  for  whose  future  the  messenger  would  not  fear.  The 
branch  of  wild  olive  had,  perhaps,  entered  into  the  dream.  Into 
a  crown  she  had  wound  it  to  set  upon  a  little  fair  head.  And 
that  was  why  she  had  suffered,  had  really  suffered,  when  a 
cruel  hand  had  come  into  Elis  and  had  torn  down  the  wild  olive 
branch.  Dion's  hand! 

That  action  had  been  like  a  murder.  She  remembered  even 
now  her  feeling  of  anger  and  distress.  She  had  been  startled. 
She  had  been  ruthlessly  torn  away  from  the  exquisite  calm  in 
which,  with  the  Hermes,  she  had  been  celestially  dreaming. 
Dion  had  torn  her  away,  Dion  who  loved  her  so  much. 

Why  had  he  done  it?     Even  now  she  did  not  know. 

He  had  taken  her  out  of  that  dream,  and  now  he  was  going 
to  take  her  away  from  Welsley. 

The  misty  brightness  was  already  fading  from  the  garden; 
the  song  of  the  thrush  was  no  longer  audible:  he  had  flown 
away  from  the  elder  bush  and  from  Rosamund.  The  coldness 
and  silence  of  the  day  seemed  to  deepen  about  her.  Welsley 
was  fading  out  of  her  life.  She  felt  that.  She  was  going  to 
begin  again.  But  as  she  had  carried  Elis  with  her  when  she  left 
it,  and  the  dear  tombs  and  temples  of  Greece,  when  she  had 
bidden  good-by  to  the  bare  and  beautiful  land  whose  winds 
and  whose  waters  are  not  as  the  winds  and  the  waters  of  any 
other  region,  so  she  would  carry  away  with  her  Welsley,  this 
garden  with  its  seclusion,  its  old  religious  atmosphere,  the  music 
of  the  chimes,  even  the  thrush's  song  from  the  elder  bush. 
"  Xaipc!  "  She  must  say  that.  But  she  had  her  precious  pos- 
session. Another  page  of  the  book  of  life  would  be  turned. 
That  was  all. 

That  was  all?  She  sighed.  A  painful  sense  of  the  im- 
permanence  of  the  things  of  this  world  came  suddenly  upon  her. 
Like  running  water  life  was  slipping  by;  its  joys,  the  shining 
bubbles  poised  upon  the  surface,  drifted  into  the  distance  and 
—  how  quickly!  —  were  out  of  reach. 

Perhaps  the  great  attraction,  the  lure  of  the  religious  life, 
was  the  sense  felt  by  those  who  led  it  of  having  a  close  grip 
upon  that  which  was  permanent.  The  joys  of  the  world  — 
even  the  natural,  healthy,  allowed  joys  —  were  shut  out,  but 
there  was  the  great  compensation,  companionship  with  that  to 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  349 

which  no  "  x<«pe  "  would  ever  have  to  be  said,  with  that  to  which 
death  only  brought  the  human  being  nearer. 

Rosamund  stopped  in  her  walk,  and  looked  up  at  the  great 
Cathedral  which  towered  above  the  wall  of  the  garden.  She 
had  been  pacing  to  and  fro  for  a  long  time.  She  did  not  feel 
tired,  but  she  was  beset  by  an  unaccustomed  sensation  of  weari- 
ness, mental  and  spiritual  rather  than  physical. 

After  a  minute  she  went  into  the  house,  found  a  rug  and 
a  book,  came  back  into  the  garden,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  in 
a  corner  hidden  from  observation.  This  bench  was  close  to 
the  wall  which  divided  the  garden  from  the  "  Dark  Entry." 
It  was  separated  from  the  lawn  and  the  view  of  the  house  by 
a  belt  of  shrubs.  Rosamund  was  fond  of  this  nook  and  had 
very  often  sat  in  it,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with  Robin. 
She  had  told  the  maids  never  to  look  for  her  there;  if  any 
visitor  came  and  she  was  not  seen  in  that  part  of  the  garden 
which  was  commanded  by  the  windows  of  the  house,  they  were 
to  conclude  that  she  was  "  out."  Here,  then,  she  was  quite  safe, 
and  could  turn  the  last  page  of  the  chapter  of  Welsley  in  her 
book  of  life. 

She  wrapped  herself  up  in  the  big  and  heavy  rug.  The  sun 
was  gone,  the  mist  had  become  slightly  more  dense,  the  air  was 
colder. 

Presently  Dion  and  Robin  would  come  back;  there  would  be 
tea  in  the  warm  old-fashioned  nursery,  gay  talk,  the  telling  of 
wonderful  deeds. 

If  only  Robin  did  not  fall  off  Jane!  But  Dion  would  take 
care  of  that.  Dion  certainly  loved  Robin  very  much.  The 
bond  between  father  and  son  had  evidently  been  strengthened 
by  the  intervention  of  the  war,  which  had  broken  off  their  inter- 
course for  a  time,  and  given  Robin  a  father  changed  by  contact 
with  hard  realities. 

For  a  few  minutes  in  imagination  Rosamund  followed  the 
two  figures  over  the  stubble,  the  thin  strong  walking  figure,  and 
the  little  darling  figure  on  pony  back.  Would  Robin  quite 
forget  her  in  the  midst  of  his  proud  and  triumphant  joy?  She 
wondered.  Even  if  he  did,  she  would  not  really  mind.  She 
wanted  him  to  be  very  happy  indeed  without  her  —  just  for  a 
short  time :  that  he  could  not  be  happy  without  her  for  long  she 
knew  very  well. 

Oddly,  her  sensation  of  weariness  persisted.  She  recognized 
it  now  as  wholly  unphysical.  She  was  certainly  feeling  what 
people  call  "  depressed."  No  doubt  this  unusual  depression  — 


350  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

for  she  had  been  born  with  a  singularly  cheerful  spirit  —  was 
caused  by  the  resolution  she  had  taken  to  give  up  Welsley.  Per- 
haps Welsley  meant  more  to  her  even  than  she  had  supposed. 
But  it  was  absurd  —  wasn't  it?  —  to  be  so  dominated  by  places. 
People,  certain  people,  might  mean  everything  in  the  life  of  a 
woman;  many  women  lived,  really  lived,  only  in  and  through 
their  lovers,  their  husbands,  their  children;  but  what  woman 
lived  in  and  through  the  life  of  the  place?  She  had  only  to 
compare  mentally  the  loss  of  Welsley  with  —  say  —  the  loss  of 
Dion,  the  new  Dion,  to  realize  how  little  Welsley  really  meant 
to  her.  Certainly  she  loved  it  as  a  place,  but  probably  a  woman 
can  only  love  a  place  with  a  bit  of  her. 

And  yet  to-day,  she  certainly  felt  depressed.  Even  the 
thought  of  the  nursery  tea  did  not  drive  the  depression  from 
her. 

She  opened  the  book  she  had  brought  from  the  house.  It 
was  a  volume  of  Browning's  poems.  She  had  opened  it  at  hap- 
hazard, and  now  her  eyes  rested  on  these  words,  words  loved 
almost  above  all  others  by  one  of  the  greatest  souls  that  ever 
spent  itself  for  England: 

"  I  go  to  prove  my  soul ! 
I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way 
I  shall  arrive !     What  time,  what  circuit  first 
I  ask  not;  but  unless  God  send  His  Hail 
Or  blinding  fire-balls,  sleet,  or  stifling  snow, 
In  some  time,  His  good  time!  —  I  shall  arrive: 
He  guides  me  and  the  bird.     In  His  good  time !  " 

She  read  the  lines  three  —  four  times.  Then  she  laid  the  book 
down  on  her  knees  and  sat  very  still.  Consciously  she  tried 
to  withdraw  herself,  to  pass  into  meditation  carrying  the  poem 
with*  her. 

"  I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way  — 
I  shall  arrive  !  " 

Rosamund  was  gazing  downward  at  a  coping  of  worn  brick 
on  which  she  had  set  her  feet,  but  she  did  not  see  it  now.  She 
saw  migratory  birds  traveling  steadily  through  a  vast  expanse 
of  gray  sky;  birds  that  were  going,  at  the  appointed  time,  to 
some  far-distant  place,  in  search  of  a  golden  climate,  in  search 
of  the  sun.  Inevitably  they  would  come  into  the  golden  cli- 
mate, inevitably  they  would  find  the  sun  which  they  needed. 
Like  them  she  was  traveling  through  a  vast  gray  expanse,  the 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  351 

life  of  the  world.  Robin  and  Dion  were  with  her.  They  were 
seeking  the  sun  which  they  needed.  Surely,  like  the  birds, 
they  would  find  the  sun  at  last.  She  had  thought  to  seek  her 
way  deliberately.  When  she  was  quite  a  girl  it  had  seemed  to 
her  that  the  human  being  had  the  power,  and  was  therefore  al- 
most under  the  obligation,  to  find  the  way  to  God  for  herself. 
When  she  had  contemplated  entering  the  religious  life  the 
thought  at  the  back  of  her  mind  had  perhaps  been  something  like 
this:  "  I'll  conquer  the  love  and  the  mercy  of  God  by  my  own 
exertions;  I'll  find  the  way  to  God  by  my  own  ingenuity  and  de- 
termination in  searching  it  out."  Possibly  she  had  never  quite 
simply  and  humbly  said  in  her  soul,  with  Newman,  "  Be  Thou 
my  Guide."  Now,  as  she  sat  in  the  garden,  with  the  image  of 
the  migratory  birds  in  her  mind,  she  thought,  "  The  birds  do 
that.  They  give  themselves  to  the  sky,  and  God  does  the  rest. 
He  knows  the  way  by  which  each  human  soul  can  best  go  back 
to  that  from  which  once  it  issued  forth."  Perhaps  as  a  Sister, 
leading  the  hidden  secluded  life,  she  could  not  have  found  the 
way;  perhaps  she  had  to  find  it  in  the  world,  through  Dion  with 
whom  she  had  united  herself,  or  through  Robin  to  whom  she 
had  given  birth. 

Through  Robin!  Yes,  surely  that  was  her  way  to  God. 
"  A  little  child  shall  lead  them."  The  words  started  up  in 
her  mind  without  their  context,  and  she  realized  that,  though 
people  believe  it  is  the  mother  who  teaches  the  child,  neverthe- 
less the  mother  learns  the  greatest  truths  from  the  child.  Who 
living  on  the  earth  could  keep  her  from  sin  as  surely  as  her 
Robin?  How  could  she  be  evil  when  Robin  looked  to  her  as 
the  embodiment  of  goodness?  What  would  she  not  do,  what 
would  she  not  give  up,  to  increase  Robin's  love  for  her,  to  give 
him  more  reason  for  regarding  her  with  innocent  confidence 
and  simple  reverence? 

Yes,  Robin  was  surely  her  way  to  God. 

And  now,  withdrawn  into  the  very  depths  of  meditation, 
and  hearing  no  longer  the  distant  voices  of  the  rooks  as  they 
wheeled  about  the  elm-tops  near  Canon  Wilton's  house,  she 
went  onwards  down  the  way  chosen  for  her  by  God,  the  "  Robin- 
way." 

Now  Robin  was  a  young  child,  and  naturally  looked  up  to 
her  as  a  kind  of  Providence.  Presently  he  would  be  a  lad; 
inevitably  he  would  reach  the  age  when  the  growing  mind  be- 
comes critical.  Young  animals  gnaw  hard  things  to  test  the 
strength  of  their  teeth;  so  do  young  growing  minds  gnaw  the 


352  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

bones  that  come  in  their  way.  Even  the  mother  comes  in  for 
much  secret  criticism  from  the  son  who  loves  her.  Rosamund's 
time  for  being  criticized  by  Robin  would  come  in  the  course  of 
the  years.  She  must  try  to  get  ready  against  that  time;  she 
must  try  to  be  worthy  of  Robin's  love  when  he  was  able  to  be 
critical.  And  so  onwards  down  the  way  across  the  gray  ex- 
panse, guided,  like  the  birds ! 

Rosamund  saw  herself  now  as  the  mother  of  a  tall  son,  har- 
dened a  little  by  public-school  life,  a  cricketer,  a  rower,  a  swim- 
mer; perhaps  intellectual  too,  the  winner  of  a  scholarship. 
There  were  so  many  hearts  and  minds  that  the  mother  of  a  son 
must  learn  to  keep,  to  companion,  to  influence,  to  go  forward 
with:  the  heart  and  the  mind  of  the  child,  the  schoolboy,  the 
undergraduate,  the  young  man  out  in  the  world  taking  up  his 
life-task  —  a  soldier  perhaps,  or  a  man  of  learning,  a  pioneer, 
a  carver  of  new  ways  for  the  crowd  following  behind. 

It  was  a  tremendous  thing  to  be  a  mother;  it  was  a  diffi- 
cult way  to  God.  But  it  was  the  most  beautiful  way  of  all 
the  ways,  and  Rosamund  was  very  thankful  that  she  had  been 
guided  to  take  it.  Robin,  she  knew,  had  taught  her  already 
very  much,  but  how  little  compared  with  all  that  he  was  destined 
to  teach  her  in  the  future!  Even  when  her  hair  was  white  no 
doubt  she  would  still  be  learning  from  him,  would  still  be  try- 
ing to  lift  herself  a  little  higher  lest  he  should  ever  have  to  look 
downward  to  see  her. 

For  a  long  while  she  meditated  on  these  things,  for  a  very 
long  while.  The  sun  never  came  back  to  the  garden  as  she 
dreamed  of  the  sun  which  the  birds  were  seeking,  of  the  sun 
which  she  and  Dion  and  Robin  were  seeking;  the  afternoon 
hours  passed  on  in  a  gray  procession ;  the  chimes  sounded  many 
times,  but  she  did  not  hear  them.  She  had  forgotten  Welsley 
in  remembering  how  small  a  part  Welsley  must  play  in  her 
mother-life,  in  remembering  how  very  small  were  the  birds  in  the 
immense  expanse  of  the  sky. 

In  Meditation  she  had  entered  into  Vastness. 

The  sound  of  the  organ  in  the  Cathedral  recalled  her.  It 
was  four  o'clock.  The  afternoon  service  was  just  beginning. 
She  sat  still  and  listened.  It  was  growing  dark  now,  but  she 
had  no  wish  to  move.  Probably  in  half  an  hour  Robin  and 
Dion  would  come  back  from  the  shooting.  From  to-day  she 
would  think  of  Robin  in  a  different  way.  He  would  be  even 
dearer  to  her,  even  more  sacred,  her  little  teacher.  What  did 
it  matter  where  she  lived  if  her  little  teacher  was  with  her? 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  353 

The  sting  had  gone  out  of  her  unselfishness;  she  was  glad 
she  had  been  able  to  be  unselfish,  to  put  Dion  before  her- 
self. 

The  organ  ceased.  They  were  praying  now  in  the  Cathe- 
dral. Presently  she  heard  them  singing  the  psalms  faintly. 
The  voices  of  the  boys  came  to  her  with  a  sort  of  vague  sweet- 
ness through  the  gathering  darkness  and  the  mist.  They  died 
away;  the  Magnificat  followed,  then  silence,  then  the  Nunc 
Dimittis,  then  another  silence,  presently  the  anthem.  Finally 
she  heard  the  organ  alone  in  a  Fugue  of  Bach. 

The  quarter  to  five  chimed  in  the  tower.  Dion  and  Robin 
were  a  little  late. 

She  got  up,  and  carried  the  rug  into  the  house. 

"Annie!  "  she  called. 

Annie  came. 

"  When  Mr.  Leith  and  Robin  come  back, —  they'll  be  here 
directly, —  will  you  ask  them  to  give  me  a  call  ?  I  shall  be  in 
the  garden." 

"  Very  well,  ma'am." 

Again  Rosamund  paced  up  and  down  the  paths.  Now  she 
was  very  conscious  of  herself  and  of  her  surroundings.  The 
long  night  of  early  winter  was  falling  upon  Welsley.  Five 
o'clock  struck,  a  quarter-past  five,  then  the  half-hour.  She 
stood  still  on  the  path,  beginning  to  wonder.  How  late  they 
were!  Robin  would  surely  be  very  tired.  It  would  be  too 
much  for  him.  Directly  he  had  had  his  tea  he  must  be  put  to 
bed.  Or  perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  put  him  to  bed  at  once. 
He  would  be  disappointed,  but  they  could  easily  have  tea  in 
the  night  nursery.  She  smiled,  conjuring  up  a  picture  of  Robin 
under  the  bedclothes  being  fed  with  pieces  of  cake.  He  would 
enjoy  that.  And  she  would  hold  his  cup  for  him  while  he 
drank,  so  that  the  bed  might  be  safe.  Meals  in  bed  are  often 
dangerous  to  the  bed.  How  delightful  were  all  the  little  absurd 
things  she  did  for  Robin! 

When  the  chimes  told  her  that  it  was  a  quarter  to  six  she 
began  to  feel  puzzled,  and  just  the  least  little  bit  anxious.  It 
had  been  quite  dark  for  a  little  while  now.  Job  Crickendon's 
farm  was  only  about  four  miles  from  Welsley.  Harrington's 
horse  might  not  be  an  exceptionally  fast-goer,  but  surely  he 
could  cover  six  miles  in  an  hour.  Dion  and  Robin  could  get 
back  in  forty  minutes  at  the  most.  They  must  have  stayed  on 
at  Job  Crickendon's  till  past  five  o'clock.  Could  they  have 
had  tea  there?  No,  she  was  sure  they  would  not  have  done 


354  !^T  THE  WILDERNESS 

that,  when  they  knew  she  was  waiting  for  them,  was  looking 
forward  eagerly  to  tea  in  the  nursery. 

When  six  o'clock  struck  and  they  had  not  returned  she  felt 
really  uneasy,  although  she  was  not  at  all  a  nervous  mother, 
and  seldom,  or  never,  worried  about  her  little  son.  She 
could  not  doubt  any  longer  that  something  unexpected  had  oc- 
curred. They  were  dining  at  half-past  seven  that  night.  In 
an  hour's  time  at  the  latest  she  and  Dion  would  have  to  dress. 
The  hopes  she  had  set  on  the  family  tea  were  vanishing.  In 
her  uneasiness  she  began  to  feel  almost  absurdly  disappointed 
about  the  tea.  She  was  hungry,  too;  she  had  had  no  lunch  just 
because  of  the  tea.  It  was  to  be  a  sort  of  family  revel,  and 
she  had  wished  to  enjoy  it  in  every  way,  to  make  of  it  a  real 
meal.  Her  abstention  from  lunch  now  seemed  to  her  almost 
pitiful.  Disappointment  became  acute  in  her.  Yet  even  now 
her  uneasiness,  though  definite,  was  not  strong.  If  it  had  been 
she  would  not  have  been  able  to  feel  so  disappointed,  even  so 
sorry  for  herself.  She  had  given  up  the  day  to  Dion.  The 
nursery  tea  was  to  have  been  her  little  reward.  Now  she  would 
be  deprived  of  it.  For  a  moment  she  felt  hurt,  almost  the  least 
bit  angry. 

As  the  words  formed  themselves  in  her  mind  she  heard  the 
quarter-past  six  chime  out  in  the  tower.  She  stood  still  on 
the  path.  What  had  happened?  Perhaps  Robin  had  fallen 
off  Jane  and  hurt  himself,  or  perhaps  there  had  been  an  acci- 
dent when  they  were  driving  home.  Harrington's  horse  was 
probably  a  crock.  He  might  have  fallen  down.  The  dogcart 
was  a  high  one 

She  pulled  herself  up.  She  had  always  secretly  rather  de- 
spised the  typical  "  anxious  mother,"  had  always  thought  that 
the  love  which  shows  itself  in  perpetual  fear  was  a  silly,  poor 
sort  of  affection.  Even  when  Robin,  as  a  baby,  had  once  been 
seriously  ill,  at  the  time  of  the  Clarke  divorce  case,  she  had  been 
calm,  had  shown  complete  self-control.  She  had  even  sur- 
prised people  by  her  fearlessness  and  quiet  determination. 

They  did  not  know  how  she  had  prayed,  and  almost  agonized 
in  secret.  She  had  drawn  the  calm  at  which  they  had  wondered 
from  prayer.  She  had  asked  God  to  let  Robin  get  well,  and 
she  had  felt  that  her  prayer  had  been  heard,  and  that  God 
would  grant  her  the  life  of  her  child. 

Perhaps  she  had  exaggerated  to  herself  the  danger  he  was 
in.  But  he  was  ill  —  for  a  short  time  he  was  very  ill,  and  a 
baby's  hold  on  life  is  but  frail. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  355 

Now  she  remembered  her  self-control  during  Robin's  illness, 
and  resolutely  she  banished  her  anxiety.  There  was  no  doubt 
some  perfectly  simple  explanation  which  presently  would 
account  to  her  for  their  not  coming  at  the  tea  hour. 

"Ma'am!"  cried  a  respectable  voice.     "  Ma-a-aw/  " 

"What  is  it,  Nurse?     They  haven't  come  back?" 

Nurse  was  coming  down  the  path  gingerly,  with  a  shawl 
over  her  cap. 

"  No,  ma'am.  Whatever  can  have  happened?  Some-thing's 
a-happened,  that's  certain." 

"  Nonsense,  Nurse!  " 

"  But  whatever  should  keep  them  out  till  late  into  the  night, 
ma'am?  " 

"  It's  only  a  little  after  six.     It  isn't  night  at  all." 

"  But  the  tea,  ma'am !  And  Master  Robin's  so  regular  in 
his  habits.  He'll  be  fair  famished,  ma'am,  that  he  will. 

I Well,  ma'am,  if  I  may  say  it,  I  really  don't  hold  with 

all  this  shooting,  and  sport,  and  what  not  for  such  young 
children." 

"  It's  only  just  for  once,  Nurse.  Go  in  now.  You'll  catch 
cold." 

"  But  yourself,  ma'am?  " 

"  I'm  quite  warm.     I'd  rather  stay  out." 

Nurse  stared  anxiously  for  a  moment,  then  turned  away  and 
went  gingerly  back  to  the  house.  Her  white  shawl  faded 
against  the  background  of  darkness.  With  its  fading  Rosa- 
mund entered  into  —  not  exactly  darkness,  but  into  deep 
shadows.  She  supposed  that  nurse's  fear  had  communicated 
itself  to  her;  she  had  caught  the  infection  of  fear  from  nurse. 
But  when  was  nurse  not  afraid?  She  was  an  excellent  woman 
and  absolutely  devoted  to  Robin,  but  she  was  not  a  Spartan. 
She  leaped  at  sight  of  a  mouse,  and  imagined  diseases  to  be 
for  ever  floating  Robinwards  on  all  the  breezes.  Rosamund 
had  strictly  forbidden  her  ever  to  talk  nonsense  about  illness 
to  Robin,  and  she  had  obeyed.  But  that  was  her  one  fault; 
she  had  a  timorous  nature. 

Rosamund  wished  nurse  had  not  come  out  into  the  garden 
to  infect  her  with  foolish  fear. 

Nurse's  invitation  to  her  to  come  into  the  house  had  made 
her  suddenly  know  that  to  be  shut  in  would  be  intolerable  to 
her.  \Vhy  was  that?  She  now  knew  that  lately,  while  she 
had  been  walking  in  the  garden,  she  had  been  straining  her 
ears  to  hear  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  Green  Court.  She 


356  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

knew  she  would  be  able  to  hear  them  in  the  garden.  In  the 
house  that  would  be  impossible.  Therefore  she  could  not  go 
into  the  house  till  Robin  came  back.  , 

All  her  fear  was  for  Robin.  He  was  so  young,  so  tiny. 
Perhaps  she  ought  not  to  have  allowed  him  to  go.  Perhaps 
nurse  was  right,  and  such  an  expedition  ought  to  have  been 
ruled  out  as  soon  as  it  was  suggested.  Perhaps  Dion  and  she 
had  been  altogether  too  Doric.  She  began  to  think  so.  But 
then  she  thought:  "Robin's  with  his  father.  What  harm 
could  come  to  him  with  his  father,  and  such  a  competent  father 
too?  "  That  thought  of  Dion's  strength,  coolness,  competency 
reassured  her;  she  dwelt  on  it.  Of  course  with  Dion  Robin 
must  be  all  right. 

Presently,  leaving  the  path  in  front  of  the  house,  she  went 
again  to  the  seat  hidden  away  behind  the  shrubs  against  the 
wall  which  separated  the  garden  from  the  Dark  Entry.  This 
dark  entry  was  an  arched  corridor  of  stone  which  led  directly 
from  the  Green  Court  to  the  passage-way  on  which  the  main 
door  of  the  garden  opened.  It  was  paved  with  worn  slabs 
of  stone  upon  which  the  feet  of  any  one  passing  rang  with  a 
mournful  and  hollow  sound.  A  tiny  path  skirted  the  garden 
wall,  running  between  the  hidden  seat  and  the  small  belt  of 
shrubs  which  shut  out  a  view  of  the  house.  Just  before  she 
turned  into  this  path  Rosamund  looked  back  at  the  old  house, 
and  saw  a  lamp  gleaming  in  the  lattice  window  of  the  nursery. 
She  did  not  sit  down  on  the  seat.  She  had  thought  to  do  that 
and  to  listen.  But  the  mist  had  made  the  wood  very  wet,  and 
she  had  left  the  rug  in  the  house.  If  she  walked  softly  up  and 
down  the  little  path  she  would  be  sure  to  hear  the  hoofs  of 
Harrington's  horse,  the  wheels  of  the  dogcart  directly  the 
wanderers  drove  into  the  Green  Court.  There  they  would  get 
down,  and  would  walk  home  through  the  Dark  Entry.  She 
intended  to  call  out  to  them  when  she  heard  their  footsteps 
ringing  on  the  old  stones.  That  would  surprise  them.  She 
tried  to  enjoy  the  thought  of  their  surprise  when  they  heard 
her  voice  coming  out  of  the  darkness.  How  Robin  would  jump 
at  the  sound  of  mummy! 

She  stood  just  in  front  of  the  seat  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
listening  intently  in  the  misty  darkness.  She  heard  nothing 
except  for  a  moment  a  rustling  which  sounded  like  a  bird 
moving  in  ivy.  Then  she  began  to  walk  softly  up  and  down, 
passing  and  repassing  the  seat.  When  she  came  up  to  the 
seat  for  the  fourth  time  in  her  walk,  an  ugly  memory  —  she 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  357 

knew  not  why  —  rose  in  her  mind  like  a  weed  in  a  pool ;  it 
was  the  memory  of  a  story  which  she  had  long  ago  read  and 
disliked.  She  had  read  it,  she  remembered,  in  a  railway  train 
on  a  long  journey.  She  had  had  a  book,  something  interesting 
and  beautiful,  with  her,  but  she  had  finished  it.  A  passenger, 
who  had  got  out  of  the  carriage,  had  left  behind  him  a  paper- 
covered  volume  of  short  stories.  She  had  taken  it  up  and  had 
read  the  first  story,  which  now,  after  an  interval  of  years,  re- 
curred to  her  mind. 

There  was  in  the  story  a  very  commonplace  business  man, 
middle-aged,  quite  unromantic  and  heavy,  the  sort  of  man 
who  does  not  know  what  "  nerves  "  mean,  who  thinks  suggestion 
"  damned  nonsense,"  and  psychical  research,  occultism,  and 
so  forth,  absurdities  fit  only  to  take  up  the  time  of  "  a  pack  of 
silly  women."  This  worthy  person  lived  in  the  suburbs  of 
London  in  a  semi-detached  villa  with  a  long  piece  of  garden 
at  the  back.  On  the  other  side  of  the  fairly  high  garden  wall 
was  the  garden  of  his  next-door  neighbor,  another  business 
man  of  the  usual  suburban  type.  Both  men  were  busy  gar- 
deners in  their  spare  time.  Number  one  had  conceived  the 
happy  idea  of  putting  up  a  tea-house  in  the  angle  of  the  wall 
at  the  bottom  of  his  lawn.  Number  two,  having  heard  of  this 
achievement,  and  not  wishing  to  be  outdone,  put  up  a  very 
similar  tea-house  in  the  corresponding  angle  on  his  side  of  the 
wall.  The  two  tea-houses  stood  therefore  back  to  back  with 
nothing  but  the  wall  between  them.  Now,  one  warm  summer 
evening  Mr.  Jenkins-Smith  —  Rosamund  could  remember  his 
name,  though  she  had  not  thought  of  him  for  years  —  had  been 
very  busy  watering  his  flowers  and  mowing  his  lawn.  He  had 
worked  really  hard,  and  when  the  evening  began  to  close  in 
he  thought  he  would  go  into  the  tea-house  and  have  a  rest. 
On  each  side  of  the  curly-legged  tea-table  of  unpolished  wood 
stood  a  wicker  arm-chair.  Into  one  of  these  chairs  Mr.  Jenk- 
ins-Smith sank  with  a  sigh  of  content.  Then  he  lighted 
his  pipe,  stretched  out  his  short  legs,  and,  gazing  at  his  beau- 
tifully trimmed  garden,  prepared  to  enjoy  a  delicious  hour  of 
well-earned  repose.  Things  were  going  well  with  him;  money 
was  easy;  his  health  was  good;  when  he  sat  down  in  the  wicker 
chair  and  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth  he  was,  perhaps,  as 
happy  a  man  as  you  could  find  in  all  Surbiton. 

But  presently,  in  fact  very  soon,  he  became  conscious  of  a 
disagreeable  feeling.  A  curious  depression  began  to  come  upon 
him.  He  smoked  steadily,  he  gazed  out  at  his  garden  green 


358  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

with  turf  and  gay  with  flowers,  but  his  interest  and  pleasure 
in  it  were  gone  from  him.  He  wondered  why.  Presently  he 
turned  his  head  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  What  he  was 
looking  for  he  did  not  know;  simply  he  felt  obliged  to  do  what 
he  did.  He  saw,  of  course,  nothing  but  the  curved  wooden 
back  of  the  tea-house.  He  listened,  he  strained  his  ears,  but 
he  heard  nothing  except  the  faint  "  ting-ting  "  of  a  tram-bell, 
and  voices  of  some  children  playing  in  a  distant  garden.  His 
pipe  had  gone  out.  As  he  lit  a  match  and  held  it  to  his  pipe 
bowl  he  saw  that  his  hand  was  shaking.  Whatever  had  come 
to  him?  He  was  no  drinker;  he  had  always  been  a  temperate 
man,  proud  of  his  clear  eyes  and  steady  limbs,  yet  now  he  was 
shaking  like  a  drunkard.  Perspiration  burst  out  upon  his 
forehead.  He  was  seized  by  an  intense  desire  to  get  away 
from  the  tea-house,  to  get  out  into  the  open,  and  he  half  rose 
from  his  chair,  holding  on  to  the  arms  and  dropping  his  pipe 
on  the  wooden  floor.  The  tiny  noise  it  made  set  his  nerves  in  a 
turmoil.  He  was  afraid.  But  of  what?  He  took  his  hands 
from  the  chair  and  sat  back,  angry  with  himself,  almost 
ashamed.  That  he  should  feel  afraid,  here  in  his  own  garden, 
in  his  own  cozy  tea-house!  It  was  absurd,  monstrous;  it  was 
like  a  sort  of  madness  come  upon  him.  But  he  was  determined 
not  to  give  way  to  such  nonsense.  Just  because  he  was  longing 
to  go  out  of  the  tea-house  he  would  remain  in  it.  Let  the  dark- 
ness come;  he  did  not  mind  it;  he  was  going  to  smoke  his  pipe. 
Again  he  stared  over  his  shoulder,  and  the  sweat  ran  down 
his  face.  Had  not  he  heard  sometning  in  the  tea-house  of  his 
neighbor  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall?  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  rather  felt  a  sound  than  actually  heard  it.  Nausea 
came  upon  him.  He  got  up  trembling.  But  still  he  was 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  he  would  not  go  out  of  the  tea-house. 
Instead  he  went  behind  the  table,  stood  close  to  the  wooden 
wall,  put  his  ear  to  it  and  listened  intently.  He  heard  nothing; 
but  when  he  was  standing  against  the  wall  his  horror  and 
fear  increased  until  he  could  no  longer  combat  them.  He 
turned  sharply,  knocked  over  a  chair,  and  hurried  out  into  the 
garden.  There  for  a  moment  he  stood  still.  Under  the  sky 
he  felt  better,  but  not  himself;  he  did  not  feel  himself  at  all. 
After  a  pause  for  consideration  he  put  on  his  jacket, —  he  had 
been  gardening  in  his  shirt-sleeves, —  went  into  his  house,  out 
into  the  road,  and  then  up  to  the  door  of  his  neighbor.  There 
he  rang  the  bell  and  knocked.  A  maid  came.  "  Is  your 
master  in?  "  he  asked.  "  Yes,  sir,  he's  sitting  in  the  summer- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  359 

house  at  the  end  of  the  garden."  "  How  long's  he  been  there?  " 
"  About  half  an  hour,  sir,  as  near  as  I  can  reckon."  "  Could 
I  see  him?"  "Certainly,  sir."  "Perhaps  you'd  —  perhaps 
you'd  show  me  to  the  summer-house."  "  Yes,  sir." 

Mr.  Jenkins-Smith  and  the  maid  went  to  the  end  of  the 
garden,  and  there,  in  the  summer-house,  they  found  the  corpse 
of  a  suicide  hanging  from  a  beam  in  the  roof. 

This  was  the  ugly  story  which  had  come  into  Rosamund's 
mind  as  she  stood  by  the  seat  close  to  the  garden  wall.  On 
the  other  side  of  Mr.  Jenkins-Smith's  wall  had  been  the  sum- 
mer-house of  his  neighbor;  on  the  other  side  of  her  wall  there 
was  the  Dark  Entry.  She  stood  considering  this  fact  and 
thinking  of  the  man's  terror  in  his  garden.  He  had  been  sub- 
ject surely  to  an  emanation.  A  mysterious  message  had  been 
sent  to  him  by  the  corpse  which  dangled  from  the  beam  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall. 

She  went  nearer  to  the  wall  of  the  garden  and  listened 
attentively.  Had  she  not  heard  a  sound  in  the  Dark  Entry? 
It  seemed  to  her  that  some  one  had  come  into  the  stone  corridor 
while  she  had  been  walking  up  and  down  on  the  path,  and  was 
now  standing  there  motionless.  But  how  very  unlikely  it  was 
that  any  one  would  do  such  a  thing!  It  must  be  quite  black 
there  now,  and  very  cold  on  the  stone  pavement,  between  the 
stone  walls,  under  the  roof  of  stone.  Of  course  no  one  was 
there. 

Nevertheless  she  went  on  listening  with  a  sort  of  painful 
attention.  And  distress  came  upon  her.  It  began  in  a  sort  of 
physical  malaise  out  of  which  a  mental  dread,  such  as  she  had 
never  yet  experienced,  was  born.  She  felt  now  quite  certain 
that  some  one  was  standing  still  in  the  Dark  Entry,  very  close 
to  her,  but  separated  from  her  by  two  walls  of  brick  and  stone; 
and  something  of  this  unseen  person,  of  his  attention,  or  his 
anger,  or  his  terror,  or  his  criminal  intent,  in  any  case  some- 
thing tremendously  powerful,  pierced  the  walls  and  came  upon 
her  and  enveloped  her.  She  opened  her  lips,  not  knowing 
what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  from  them  came  the  cry : 

"  Dion !  " 

Silence  followed  her  cry. 

"Dion!  Dion!  "  she  called  again. 

Immediately  after  the  third  cry  she  heard  a  slow  step  on  the 
stones  of  the  Dark  Entry,  passing  close  to  her  but  muffled  by 
the  intervening  walls.  It  went  on  very  slowly  indeed;  it  was 
a  dragging  footfall;  the  sound  of  it  presently  died  away. 


360  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Then  she  sat  down  on  the  bench  close  to  the  wall.  She  still 
felt  distressed,  even  afraid.  Whoever  it  was  —  that  loiterer 
in  the  Dark  Entry  —  he  had  left  the  corridor  by  the  archway 
near  Little  Cloisters;  he  had  not  gone  into  the  Green  Court. 

She  sat  waiting  in  the  darkness. 

That  afternoon,  while  Rosamund  was  in  the  garden,  Mr. 
Esme  Darlington  was  paying  a  little  visit  to  his  old  friend  and 
crony,  the  Dean  of  Welsley.  He  had  known  the  Dean  —  well, 
almost  ever  since  he  could  remember,  and  the  Dean's  wife  ever 
since  she  had  married  the  Dean.  His  delay  in  returning  to 
town,  caused  by  Rosamund's  attractive  invitation,  enabled  him 
to  spend  an  hour  at  the  Deanery,  where  he  had  tea  in  the  great 
drawing-room  on  the  first  floor,  which  looked  out  on  the  Green 
Court.  So  pleasant  were  the  Dean  and  his  wife,  so  serenely 
flowed  the  conversation,  that  the  hour  lengthened  out  into  two 
hours,  and  the  Cathedral  chimes  announced  that  it  was  a 
quarter  to  seven  before  Mr.  Darlington  uncrumpled  his  length 
to  go.  Even  then  Mrs.  Dean  begged  him  to  stay  on  a  little 
longer. 

"  It's  such  a  treat  to  hear  all  the  interesting  gossip  of  Lon- 
don," she  said,  almost  wistfully.  "  When  Dickie  " —  Dickie 
was  the  Dean, — "  when  Dickie  was  at  St.  Peter's,  Eaton  Square, 
we  knew  everything  that  was  going  on,  but  here  in  Welsley 
—  well,  I  often  feel  rather  rusty." 

Mr.  Darlington  paid  the  appropriate  compliment,  not  in  a 
banal  way,  and  then  mentioned  that  at  half-past  seven  he  was 
dining  in  Little  Cloisters. 

"  That  delightful  creature  Mrs.  Dion  Leith !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Dean.  "  Dickie's  hopelessly  in  her  toils." 

"My  dear!"  began  the  Dean,  in  pleased  protestation. 

But  she  interrupted  him. 

"  I  assure  you,"  she  went  on  to  Mr.  Darlington,  "  he  is 
always  making  excuses  to  see  her.  She  has  even  influenced 
him  to  appoint  a  new  verger,  a  most  extraordinary  old  person, 
called  Thrush,  with  a  nose!  " 

Mr.  Darlington  cocked  an  interrogative  eyebrow. 

"  My  darling !  "  said  the  Dean.  "  He's  a  good  old  man, 
very  deserving,  and  has  recently  taken  the  pledge." 

"  He's  a  modified  teetotaler !  "  said  his  wife  to  Mr.  Darling- 
ton, patting  her  husband's  arm.  "  You  see  what  Dickie's 
coming  to.  If  it  goes  on  he  will  soon  be  a  modified  Dean." 

It  was  past  seven  when  they  finished  talking  about  Rosa- 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  361 

mund  and  Dion,  when  Mr.  Darlington  at  length  tore  himself 
delicately  away  from  their  delightful  company,  and,  warmly 
wrapped  in  an  overcoat  lined  with  unostentatious  sable,  set 
out  on  the  short  walk  to  Canon  Wilton's  house.  To  reach  the 
Canon's  house  he  Had  to  pass  through  the  Dark  Entry  and  skirt 
the  garden  wall  of  Little  Cloisters. 

Now,  as  he  came  out  of  the  Dark  Entry  and  stepped  into 
the  passage-way,  which  led  by  the  wall  and  the  old  house  into 
the  great  open  space  of  green  lawns  and  elm  trees  round  which 
the  dwellings  of  the  canons  showed  their  lighted  windows  to 
the  darkness  of  the  November  evening,  he  was  stopped  by  a 
terrible  sound.  It  came  to  him  from  the  garden  of  Little 
Cloisters.  It  was  short,  sharp  and  piercing,  so  piercing  that 
for  an  instant  he  felt  as  if  literally  it  had  torn  the  flesh  of  his 
body.  He  had  never  before  heard  any  sound  at  all  like  it; 
but,  when  he  was  able  to  think,  he  thought,  he  felt  almost 
certain,  that  it  had  come  from  an  animal.  He  shuddered. 
Always  temperamentally  averse  from  any  fierce  demonstrations 
of  feeling,  always  instinctively  restrained,  careful  and  intelli- 
gently conventional,  he  was  painfully  startled  and  moved  by 
this  terrible  outcry  which  could  only  have  been  caused  by 
intense  agony.  As  he  believed  that  the  cry  had  come  from  an 
animal,  he  naturally  supposed  that  the  agony  which  had  caused 
it  was  physical.  He  was  a  very  humane  man,  and  as  soon  as 
he  had  mastered  the  feeling  of  cold  horror  which  had  for  a 
moment  held  him  rigid,  he  hastened  on  to  the  door  of  Little 
Cloisters  and  pulled  the  bell.  After  a  pause  which  seemed 
to  him  long  the  door  was  opened  by  Annie,  Rosamund's  parlor- 
maid. She  presented  to  Mr.  Darlington's  peering  gaze  a  face 
full  of  ignorance  and  fear. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked,  in  a  hesitating  voice. 

"  Sir?  "  said  Annie. 

"What  has  happened  in  the  garden?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir,  that  I  know  of.  I  have  been  in  the  house." 
She  paused,  then  added,  with  a  sort  of  timorous  defiance: 
"  I'm  not  one  as  would  listen,  sir." 

"  Then  you  didn't  hear  it?  " 

"Hear  what,  sir?" 

Her  question  struck  upon  Mr.  Darlington's  native  con- 
ventionality, and  made  him  conscious  of  the  fact  that,  perhaps 
almost  indiscreetly,  he  was  bandying  words  with  a  maid- 
servant. He  put  up  one  hand  to  his  beard,  pulled  at  it,  and 
then  said,  almost  in  his  usual  voice: 


362  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Is  Mrs.  Leith  in?  " 
She's  in  the  garden,  sir." 
In  the  garden  ?  " 
Yes,  sir." 

Is  —  is  Mr.  Leith  at  home?  " 

He's  just  come  home,  sir,  and  gone  to  Mrs.  Leith  in  the 
garden." 

Mr.  Darlington  stood  for  a  moment  pulling  his  beard  and 
raising  and  lowering  his  eyebrows.  Then  he  said  doubtfully: 

"  Thank  you.  I  won't  disturb  them  now.  I  shall  be  here 
with  Canon  Wilton  at  half-past  seven." 

Annie  stood  staring  at  him  in  silence. 

"They  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leith  expect  us,  I  believe?  "  added 
Mr.  Darlington. 

"  They  haven't  said  anything  to  the  contrary,  sir." 

"  No?  " 

Slowly  Mr.  Darlington  turned  away,  slowly  he  disappeared 
into  the  darkness;  his  head  was  bent,  and  he  looked  older  than 
usual.  Annie  gazed  after  him.  Once  she  opened  her  lips 
as  if  she  were  going  to  call  him  back,  but  no  sound  came  from 
them. 

"Annie!     Annie!  "  cried  a  voice  in  the  house  behind  her. 

She  turned  sharply  and  confronted  Robin's  nurse. 

'Where's  Master  Robin?"  said  the  nurse,  almost  fiercely. 

'  I  don't  know.     He  hasn't  come  back  with  master.1 

'  I'm  going  into  the  garden,"  said  the  nurse. 

'For  God's  sake,  don't!  "  said  Annie. 

'  Why  not?  "  asked  the  nurse. 

Suddenly  Annie  began  to  cry.  The  nurse  pulled  her  in 
and  shut  the  door  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 

ROSAMUND  did  not  know  how. long  she  sat  in  the 
garden  after  she  had  heard  the  footfall  in  the  Dark 
Entry.     Perhaps  five  minutes,  perhaps  many  more  had 
slipped  by  before  she  was  aware  of  feeling  cold.     A  chill  had 
gone  through  her  mind  when  she  heard  the  footfall;  now  her 
body  was  chilled.     She  shivered  and  got  up.     She  must  go 
into  the  house. 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  363 

It  was  now  very  dark.  The  path  was  a  pale  grayish  blur 
at  her  feet.  On  her  left  the  shrubs  which  concealed  the  house 
from  her  showed  as  a  heavy  morose  blackness  against  the  softer 
and  more  mysterious  blackness  of  the  night.  The  dampness 
which  rose  in  the  garden  was  like  the  dreary  whispering  of 
sad  earth  voices. 

She  shivered  again. 

Then  she  heard  a  faltering  step  on  the  path  beyond  the 
shrubs.  It  was  certainly  Dion's  step.  At  last  they  had  come 
back! 

With  a  movement  of  her  shoulders  she  tried  to  throw  off 
her  depression,  as  if  it  were  something  heavy  resting  upon  her, 
something  which  a  physical  effort  could  get  rid  of.  Then  she 
called  out  in  a  brisk  and  cheerful  voice: 

"  Dion,  I'm  here.  How  late  you  are !  What  have  you 
shot  ?" 

It  was  too  late  now  for  the  nursery  tea,  but  they  had  come 
back  and  all  was  well. 

"Dion!" 

The  step  had  stopped  on  the  path  and  no  voice  answered 
hers.  Nevertheless  she  was  certain  that  it  was  Dion  who  had 
come  into  the  garden.  Perhaps  Robin  was  with  him,  perhaps 
they  were  going  to  give  her  a  surprise.  She  waited  for  an 
instant.  Something  within  her  was  hesitating.  She  conquered 
it,  not  without  an  effort,  and  went  round  the  angle  of  the  path. 
Beyond  the  shrubs,  but  not  far  from  them,  a  man  was  standing. 
It  was  Dion.  He  was  alone.  It  was  so  dark  that  Rosamund 
could  not  see  him  clearly,  but  she  noticed  at  once  that  the 
outline  of  his  figure  looked  strange.  His  body  seemed  to  be 
all  awry  as  if  he  were  standing  in  an  unnatural  position.  She 
stopped  and  stared  at  this  body. 

"Is  anything  wrong,  Dion?"  she  asked.  "What's  the 
matter?  Why  do  you  stand  like  that?  " 

After  her  last  quick  question  she  heard  a  long-drawn  quiv- 
ering breath. 

"Where's  Robin?"  she  said  sharply. 

He  did  not  answer.  She  meant  to  go  up  to  him;  but  she 
did  not  move. 

"Why  are  you  so  late?    Where's  Robin?"  she  repeated. 

"  Rosamund " 

"  Don't  move!     Stand  there,  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"Haven't  I  —  always  tried  to  make  you  happy?" 

The  words  came  from  the  body  before  her,  but  she  did  not 


364  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

know  the  voice.  It  was  Dion's  voice,  of  course.  It  must  be 
that.  But  she  had  never  heard  it  before. 

"  Don't  come  nearer  to  me.     What  have  you  done?  " 

"  Robin  —  I  have  —  I  have  —  Robin  —  my  gun " 

The  voice  failed  in  the  darkness.  Rosamund  shut  her  eyes. 
She  had  seen  an  angry  hand  tear  down  a  branch  of  wild  olive. 
Suddenly  she  knew.  It  seemed  to  her  that  ever  since  that  day 
long  ago  in  Elis  some  part  of  her  had  always  prophetically 
known  that  Dion  was  fated  to  bring  terror  and  ruin  into  her 
life.  This  was  not  true,  but  now  she  felt  it  to  be  true. 

"  You've  killed  Robin,"  she  said,  quietly  and  coldly. 

Her  brain  and  heart  seemed  to  stand  still,  like  things  staring 
into  an  immense  void.  They  had  come  to  the  end  of  their  road. 

"  You've  killed  Robin,"  she  said  again. 

"  Rosamund " 

The  body  in  front  of  her  moved  to  come  towards  her.  Then 
she  uttered  the  fearful  cry  which  was  heard  by  Mr.  Darlington 
on  his  way  home  from  the  Deanery,  and  she  fled  from  the 
body  which  had  slain  Robin. 

That  purely  instinctive  action  was  the  beginning  of  Dion's 
punishment.  A  cry,  the  movement  of  a  body,  and  everything 
which  meant  life  to  him,  everything  for  which  he  had  lived, 
was  gone.  But  he  followed  Rosamund  with  a  sort  of  blind 
obstinacy,  driven  as  she  was  by  instinct.  Dimly  he  knew  that 
he  was  a  man  who  only  merited  compassion,  all  the  compassion 
of  the  world.  He  had  no  horror  of  himself,  but  only  a  horror 
of  that  Fate  to  which  mortals  have  to  submit  and  which  had 
overtaken  him  in  a  shining  moment  of  happiness.  The  gun 
accident  of  which  his  little  son  had  been  the  victim  presented 
itself  to  his  erring  mind  as  a  terrific  stroke  from  above,  or  from 
beyond,  falling  equally  upon  father  and  child.  He  was  not 
responsible  for  it.  The  start  of  a  frightened  pony,  its  sudden 
attempt  to  bolt,  the  pulling  of  a  rein  which  had  brought  the 
animal  against  him  just  as  he  was  lifting  his  gun  to  fire  at 
a  rising  bird  —  what  were  these  things?  Only  the  clumsy 
machinery  used  by  implacable  Fate  to  bring  about  that  which 
had  been  willed  somewhere,  far  off  in  the  dark  and  the  dis- 
tance. 

He  must  tell  Rosamund,  he  must  tell  Rosamund. 


Annie  and  the  nurse  came  out  to  the  edge  of  the  broad  path 
which  ran  along  the  front  of  the  house  and  peered  into  the 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  365 

darkness.  Annie  was  crying  and  holding  on  to  the  nurse, 
whose  almost  fierce  determination  faded  as  she  confronted  the 
mystery  of  the  night  which  hid  her  master  and  mistress. 

"  H'sh,  Annie,"  she  whispered.  "Where  can  they  be? 
Listen,  I  tell  you!" 

Annie  strove  to  choke  down  her  sobs. 

"I  can  hear  —  some  one,"  whispered  the  nurse,  after  a 
moment.  "Don't  you?  Listen,  I  tell  you!  Right  over  by 
the  wall  near  the  Bishop's!  " 

The  sound  of  steps  indeed  came  to  them  through  the  dark- 
ness. Annie  broke  away  from  the  nurse. 

"I'm  frightened!  I'm  frightened!  I  don't  know  what's 
come  to  them,"  she  whispered  through  her  teeth,  resisting  the 
impulse  to  cry  out.  "  Come  in,  Nurse,  for  God's  sake!  " 

She  shrank  into  the  house.  The  nurse  stood  where  she  was 
for  a  moment,  but  when  she  heard  the  steps  a  little  nearer  to 
her  she,  too,  was  overcome  by  fear  and  followed  Annie  trem- 
bling, shutting  the  door  behind  her. 

Exactly  at  half-past  seven  Mr.  Darlington  and  Canon  Wilton 
were  outside  the  door  of  Little  Cloisters  and  Mr.  Darlington 
pulled  the  bell.  Always  the  most  discreet  of  men,  he  had  not 
mentioned  to  his  host  the  terrible  cry  he  had  heard  in  the 
Leiths'  garden,  or  his  short  colloquy  with  Annie.  He  was 
seriously  disturbed  in  mind,  but,  being  a  trained  man  of  the 
world  and  one  who  prided  himself  upon  his  powers  of  self- 
control,  he  had  concealed  this  unpleasant  fact  from  the  Canon, 
and  had  talked  quite  agreeably  during  their  little  walk  between 
the  two  houses.  The  sound  of  that  dreadful  cry  still  seemed 
to  shudder  through  his  flesh,  but  it  was  not  for  him  to  pry 
into  the  private  lives  of  others,  even  of  those  whom  he  knew 
intimately,  and  had  a  great  regard  for.  He  hoped  all  was  well 
with  his  dear  young  friends.  There  might  be  some  quite  simple 
explanation  of  that  cry.  He  fervently  hoped  there  was.  In 
any  case  it  was  not  for  him  to  ask  questions,  or  to 

"  They're  a  long  while  answering  the  bell,"  said  Canon 
Wilton,  in  his  strong,  earnest  voice.  "  Hadn't  you  better  give 
it  another  tug,  Darlington?  " 

Mr.  Darlington  started. 

"H'm  —  ha!" 

He  raised  his  hand  and  pulled  the  bell  a  second  time. 

"  That's  better,"  said  the  Canon,  as  he  heard  inside  the 
house  a  long  tinkle.  "  Annie's  bound  to  come  now.  As  a  rule 
she's  very  quick  in  answering  the  door.  Among  her  many 


366  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

virtues,  Mrs.  Leith  counts  that  of  being  a  first-rate  housewife. 
She  trains  her  maids  well." 

"Does  she?  "  murmured  Mr.  Darlington  abstractedly,  bend- 
ing forward  till  he  seemed  almost  to  be  listening  at  the  door. 
"Does  she?  I  hear  some  one  coming.  H'm!  " 

He  straightened  himself.  The  door  opened  and  Annie  ap- 
peared. When  she  saw  the  two  men  she  drew  back  quickly 
to  let  them  pass  in.  Canon  Wilton  said  kindly:  "  Good  eve- 
ning, Annie." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Annie,  and  began  to  cry  audibly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  Canon,  surprised. 

They  were  now  in  the  little  oak  paneled  hall,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  lamp  they  could  see  the  tears  running  down  the 
flushed  face  of  the  maid. 

"  Is  anything  wrong?  "  said  the  Canon. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!  Oh,  we  don't  know 
what  it  is!  " 

At  this  moment  Robin's  nurse  showed  herself  on  the  stair- 
case. 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips,  "  do 
go  into  the  garden!  " 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Canon  Wilton,  in  a  loud,  firm  voice. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leith  are  both  there,  sir.  They've  been 
there  this  long  time.  Mr.  Leith  he's  come  back  from  the  shoot- 
ing without  Master  Robin.  Oh,  there's  something  wrong,  sir, 
there's  something  wrong!  " 

"  Stay  here  for  a  moment,  Darlington,"  said  the  Canon, 
with  a  sudden,  almost  fiery,  decision.  "  I'll  go  at  once  and 
see  what's  the  matter." 

But  Mr.  Darlington  laid  a  bony  hand  on  his  friend's  arm. 

"  I'll  come  with  you,  Wilton.  I'm  —  I'm  afraid  it's  some- 
thing very  bad." 

He  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper  in  saying  the  last 
words. 

The  Canon  formed  "  Why?  "  with  his  lips. 

"  Just  now,  as  I  was  passing  the  garden  here  coming  back 
from  the  Deanery,  I  heard  a  most  dreadful  cry.  I  thought 
at  the  time  that  it  came  from  an  animal,  but  —  now " 

The  Canon  stared  at  him  almost  sternly. 

"  We'd  better  not  waste  time,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  you'd 
gone  in  then." 

And  he  turned  bruskly.  He  had  opened  the  door,  and  was 
about  to  step  on  to  the  broad  path  which  divided  the  front  of 


LITTLE  CLOISTERS  367 

the  house  from  the  lawn,  when  he  heard  steps  approaching 
swiftly  on  the  gravel. 

"  Some  one  coming!  "  he  said.  "  Stop  where  you  are,  Darl- 
ington. I  believe  it's  .  .  ." 

Before  he  could  finish  his  sentence  Rosamund  came  upon 
him  out  of  the  darkness.  Her  face  was  distorted,  so  distorted 
that  he  scarcely  recognized  it.  It  seemed  to  have  shrunk  and 
sharpened,  and  it  had  the  look  of  fierceness  which  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  faces  of  starving  people.  She  put  out  both 
her  hands  as  she  came  up  to  him,  pushed  him  with  violence 
into  the  house,  and  followed  him. 

"Lock  the  door!"  she  whispered.     "Lock  it!     Lock  it!" 

"  But " 

.  Her  voice  rose.     She  seemed  savage  with  fear. 

"Lock  it,  I  tell  you!" 

A  long  arm  shot  out  and  a  bony  hand  turned  the  key  in 
the  door. 

"  It's  the  only  thing  to  be  done  for  the  moment,"  said  Mr. 
Darlington  to  the  Canon.  "  She's  mad  with  fear." 

Both  the  maids  had  disappeared,  terrified  by  the  face  of 
their  mistress.  Rosamund  caught  hold  of  the  stair-rail  and 
began  to  hurry  upstairs,  but  Mr.  Darlington  followed  her  and 
seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"Rosamund!     Rosamund!     What  is  it?  " 

She  turned. 

"  I'm  going  to  find  Robin.  That  man's  killed  Robin ! 
Keep  him  out!  Keep  him  away  from  me!  " 

A  dreadful  surreptitious  expression  made  her  face  hideous. 
She  leaned  fonvard,  nodding  her  head,  and  whispered  in  Mr. 
Darlington's  ear: 

"  You  keep  him  away  from  me  while  I  find  Robin.  He's 
killed  Robin!  " 

Her  whole  body  began  to  shake.  Mr.  Darlington  put  one 
arm  round  her. 

"  But,  Rosamund " 

Below,  the  handle  of  the  door  leading  to  the  garden  was 
turned,  the  door  was  shaken,  and  there  came  a  knocking  on 
the  wood. 

Then  Mr.  Darlington  heard  again  the  cry  which  had  come 
to  him  that  evening  as  he  passed  the  garden  of  Little  Cloisters. 
His  arm  dropped. 

Rosamund  went  frantically  up  the  stairs  and  disappeared 
on  the  dark  landing  above. 


BOOK  IV 
THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  June  of  the  following  year  two  young  Englishmen,  who 
were  making  a  swift  tour  in  the  near  East,  were  sitting 
one  evening  in  a  public  garden  at  Pera.  The  west  wind, 
which  had  been  blowing  all  day,  had  gone  down  with  the 
coming  of  night.  The  air  was  deliciously  warm,  but  not  sultry. 
The  travelers  had  dined  well,  but  not  too  well,  and  were  ready 
to  be  happy,  and  to  see  in  others  the  reflection  of  their  own 
contented  holiday  mood.  It  was  delightful  to  be  "  on  the 
loose,"  without  responsibilities,  and  with  a  visit  to  Brusa  to 
look  forward  to  in  the  immediate  future.  They  sat  under  the 
stars,  sipped  their  coffee,  listened  to  the  absurd  music  played 
by  a  fifth-rate  band  in  a  garishly-lighted  kiosk,  and  watched 
with  interest  the  coming  and  going  of  the  crowd  of  Turks  and 
Perotes,  with  whom  mingled  from  time  to  time  foreign  sailors 
from  ships  lying  off  the  entrance  to  the  Golden  Horn  and  a 
few  tourists  from  the  hotels  of  Pera.  Just  behind  them  sat 
their  guide,  a  thin  and  eager  Levantine,  half-Greek  and  half- 
Armenian,  who,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  declared  that  his 
name  was  John. 

There  was  little  romance  in  this  garden  set  in  the  midst  of 
the  noisy  European  quarter  of  Constantinople.  The  music  was 
vulgar;  Greek  waiters  with  dissipated  faces  ran  to  and  fro 
carrying  syrups  and  liqueurs;  corpulent  Turks  sat  heavily  over 
glasses  of  lager  beer;  overdressed  young  men  of  enigmatic  ap- 
pearance, with  oily  thick  hair,  shifty  eyes,  and  hands  covered 
with  cheap  rings,  swaggered  about  smoking  cigarettes  and 
talking  in  loud,  ostentatious  voices.  Some  women  were  there, 
fat  and  garish  for  the  most  part,  liberally  powdered  and 
painted,  and  crowned  with  hats  at  which  Paris  would  have 

369 


370  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

stared  almost  in  fear.  There  were  also  children,  dark,  even 
swarthy,  with  bold  eyes,  shrill  voices,  immodest  bearing,  who 
looked  as  if  they  had  long  since  received  the  ugly  freedom  of 
the  streets,  and  learned  lessons  no  children  ought  to  know. 

Presently  the  band  stopped  playing  and  there  was  a  general 
movement  of  the  crowd.  People  got  up  from  the  little  tables 
and  began  to  disperse.  "  John  "  leaned  forward  to  his  em- 
ployers, and  in  a  quick  and  rattling  voice  informed  them  that 
a  "  fust-rate  "  variety  entertainment  was  about  to  take  place 
in  another  part  of  the  garden.  Would  they  come  to  see  it? 
There  would  be  very  beautiful  women,  very  fine  girls  such  as 
can  only  be  gazed  on  in  Constantinople,  taking  part  in  the 
"  show." 

The  young  men  agreed  to  "  have  a  look  at  it,"  and  followed 
John  to  a  place  where  many  round  tables  and  chairs  were 
set  out  before  a  ramshackle  wooden  barrack  of  a  theater,  under 
the  shade  of  some  pepper  trees,  through  whose  tresses  the  stars 
peeped  at  a  throng  and  a  performance  which  must  surely  have 
surprised  them. 

The  band,  or  a  portion  of  it,  was  again  at  work,  playing 
an  inane  melody,  and  upon  the  small  stage  two  remarkably 
well-developed  and  aquiline-featured  women  of  mature  age, 
dressed  as  very  young  children  in  white  socks,  short  skirts 
which  displayed  frilled  drawers,  and  muslin  bonnets  adorned 
with  floating  blue  and  pink  ribbons,  swayed  to  and  fro  and 
joined  their  cracked  voices  in  a  duet,  the  French  words  of 
which  seemed  to  exhale  a  sort  of  fade  obscenity.  While  they 
swayed  and  jigged  heavily,  showing  their  muscular  legs  to 
the  staring  audience,  they  gazed  eagerly  about,  seeking  an 
admiration  from  which  they  might  draw  profit  when  their 
infantile  task  was  over.  Presently  they  retired,  running  skit- 
tishly, taking  small  leaps  into  the  air,  and  aimlessly  blowing 
kisses  to  the  night. 

"  Very  fine  girls !  "  murmured  John  to  his  young  patrons. 
"  They  make  much  money  in  Pera." 

One  of  the  young  men  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  smile. 

"  Get  us  two  Turkish  coffees,  John !  "  he  said.  Then  he 
turned  to  his  companion.  "  I  say,  Ellis,  have  you  noticed  an 
English  feller  —  at  least  I  take  him  to  be  English  —  who's 
fitting  over  there  close  to  the  stage,  sideways  to  us  ?  " 

"  No;  where  is  he?  "  asked  his  companion. 

"  You  see  that  old  Turk  with  the  double  chin  ?  " 

;<  Rather." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  371 

"  Just  beyond  him,  sitting  with  a  guide  who's  evidently 
Greek." 

"  I've  got  him." 

"  Watch  him.     I  never  saw  such  a  face." 

A  blowzy  young  woman,  in  orange  color  and  green,  with 
short  tinsel-covered  skirts,  bounded  wearily  on  to  the  stage, 
smiling,  and  began  to  sing: 

"  Je  suis  une  boite  de  surprises! 

O  la  la !     O  la  la ! 
Je  suis  une  boite  de  surprises." 

Ellis  looked  across  at  the  man  to  whom  his  attention  had 
been  drawn.  This  man  was  seated  by  a  little  table  on  which 
were  a  siphon,  a  bottle  of  iced  water,  and  a  tall  tumbler  nearly 
half-full  of  a  yellow  liquid.  He  was  smoking  a  large  dark- 
colored  cigar  which  he  now  and  then  took  from  his  mouth 
with  a  hand  that  was  very  thin  and  very  brown.  His  face 
was  dark  and  browned  by  the  sun,  but  looked  startlingly  hag- 
gard, as  if  it  were  pale  or  even  yellowish  under  the  sunburn. 
About  the  eyes  there  were  large  wrinkles,  spraying  downwards 
over  the  cheek  bones  and  invading  the  cheeks.  He  wore  a 
mustache,  and  was  well-dressed  in  a  tweed  suit.  But  his  low 
collar  was  not  very  fresh,  and  his  tie  was  arranged  in  a  slov- 
enly fashion  and  let  his  collar  stud  be  seen.  He  sat  with  his 
legs  crossed,  staring  at  the  grimacing  woman  on  the  stage  with 
a  sort  of  horribly  icy  intentness.  The  expression  about  his 
lips  and  eyes  was  more  than  bitter;  it  showed  a  frozen 
fierceness. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  seated  a  lean,  meager 
guide,  obviously  one  of  those  Greeks  who  haunt  the  quays  of 
Constantinople  on  the  look  out  for  arriving  travelers.  Now 
and  then  this  Greek  leaned  forward  and,  with  a  sort  of  servile 
and  anxious  intelligence,  spoke  to  his  companion.  He  received 
no  reply.  The  other  man  went  on  smoking  and  staring  at  the 
boite  de  surprises  as  if  he  were  alone.  And  somehow  he  seemed 
actually  to  be  alone,  encompassed  by  a  frightful  solitude. 

"  A  tragic  face,  isn't  it?  "  said  the  man  who  had  first  spoken. 

"  By  Jove  it  is !  "  returned  the  other.  "  I  wonder  that 
woman  can  go  on  singing  so  close  to  it." 

"  Probably  she  hasn't  seen  him.  How  many  years  do  you 
give  him?  " 

"Thirty-eight  or  forty." 

"He  isn't  out  for  pleasure,  that's  certain." 


372  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Pleasure  1  One  would  suppose  he'd  been  keeping  house 
with  Medusa  and  —  the  deuce,  she's  seen  him !  " 

At  this  moment  the  singer  looked  towards  the  stranger, 
quavered,  faltered,  nearly  broke  down,  then,  as  if  with  an 
effort,  raised  her  voice  more  shrilly  and  defiantly,  exaggerated 
her  meaningless  gestures  and  looked  away.  A  moment  later 
she  finished  her  song  and  turned  to  strut  off  the  stage.  As  she 
did  so  she  shot  a  sort  of  fascinated  glance  at  the  dark  man. 
He  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  puffed  the  smoke  towards 
her,  probably  without  knowing  that  he  did  so.  With  a  startled 
jerk  she  bounded  into  the  wings. 

At  this  moment  John  returned  with  two  cups  of  coffee. 

"  You  know  everything,  John.  Tell  us  who  that  man  over 
there  is,"  said  Ellis,  indicating  the  stranger. 

John  sent  a  devouring  glance  past  the  old  Turk's  double 
chin,  a  glance  which,  as  it  were,  swallowed  at  one  gulp  the 
dark  man,  his  guide,  the  siphon,  the  water-bottle  and  the  glass 
partially  full  of  the  yellow  liquid. 

"  I  dunno  him.     He  is  noo." 

"Is  he  English?" 

"Sure!  "  returned  John,  almost  with  a  sound  of  contempt 

He  never  made  a  mistake  about  any  man's  nationality, 
could  even  tell  a  Spanish  Jew  from  a  Portuguese  Jew  on  a  dark 
night  at  ten  yards'  distance. 

"  I  tell  you  who  he  is  later.  I  know  the  guide,  a  damned 
fool  and  a  rogue  of  a  Greek  what  has  been  in  prison.  He 
robs  all  his  people  what  take  him." 

"  You  needn't  bother,"  said  Ellis  curtly. 

"  Of  course  not.  Shut  up,  John,  and  don't  run  down  your 
brothers  in  crime." 

"  That  man  my  brother!  " 

John  upraised  two  filthy  ringed  hands. 

"That  dirty  skunk  my  brother!     That  son  of " 

"That'll  do,  John!     Be  quiet." 

"  To-morrow  I  tell  you  all  about  the  gentleman.  Here  is 
another  fine  girl!  I  know  her  very  well." 

A  languid  lady,  with  a  face  painted  as  white  as  a  wall,  large 
scarlet  lips,  eyes  ringed  with  bluish  black,  and  a  gleaming  and 
trailing  black  gown  which  clung  closely  to  her  long  and  snake- 
like  body,  writhed  on  to  the  stage,  looking  carefully  sinister. 

The  dark  man  swallowed  his  drink,  got  up  and  made  his 
way  to  the  exit  from  the  garden.  He  passed  close  to  the  two 
young  men,  followed  by  his  Greek,  at  whom  John  cast  a  glance 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  373 

of  scowling  contempt,  mingled,  however,  with  very  definite 
inquiry. 

"By  Jove!  he's  almost  spoilt  my  evening,"  said  Ellis. 
"  But  we  made  a  mistake,  Vernon.  He  isn't  anything  like 
forty." 

"  No;  more  like  thirty  under  a  cloud." 

"  By  the  look  of  things  I  should  guess  there  are  plenty  of 
people  under  a  cloud  in  Fera.  But  that  English  feller  stands 
out  even  here.  This  girl  is  certainly  a  first-class  wriggler,  if 
she's  nothing  else." 

They  did  not  mention  the  stranger  again  that  night.  But 
John  had  not  forgotten  him,  and  when  he  arrived  at  their  hotel 
next  day  he  at  once  opened  his  capacious  mouth  and  let  out 
the  following  information: 

"  The  gentleman's  name  is  Denton,  his  other  name  is  Mervyn, 
he  is  three  days  in  Constantinople,  he  lives  in  Hughes's  Hotel 
in  Pera,  a  very  poor  house  where  chic  people  they  never  goes, 
he  is  out  all  day  and  always  walkin',  he  will  not  take  a  carriage, 
and  he  is  never  tired,  Nicholas  Gounaris  —  the  Greek  guide  — 
he  is  droppin'  but  the  gentleman  he  does  not  mind,  he  only 
sayin'  if  you  cannot  walk  find  me  another  guide  what  can, 
every  night  he  is  out,  too,  and  he  is  goin'  to  Stamboul  when  it 
is  dark,  he  is  afraid  of  nothin'  and  goin'  where  travelers  they 
never  go,  one  night  Gounaris  he  had  to  show  the  traveler " 

But  at  this  point  Ellis  shut  John  up. 

"  That'll  do,"  he  observed.  "  You're  a  diligent  rascal,  John. 
One  must  say  that.  But  we  aren't  a  couple  of  spies,  and  we 
don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  that  feller." 

And  John,  without  bearing  any  malice,  went  off  to  com- 
plete his  arrangements  for  the  journey  to  Brusa. 

Two  days  later,  Mrs.  Clarke,  who  was  at  Buyukderer  in  a 
villa  she  had  taken  for  the  summer  months,  but  who  had  come 
into  Constantinople  to  do  some  shopping,  saw  "  Mervyn  Den- 
ton  "  in  a  side  street  close  to  the  British  Embassy.  Those 
distressed  eyes  of  hers  were  very  observant.  There  were  many 
people  in  the  street,  and  "  Denton,"  who  was  alone,  was  several 
yards  away  from  her,  and  was  walking  with  his  back  towards 
her;  but  she  immediately  recognized  him,  quickened  her  steps 
till  she  was  close  to  him,  and  then  said: 

"Dion  Leith!" 

Dion  heard  the  husky  voice  and  turned  round.  He  did 
not  say  anything,  but  he  took  off  the  soft  hat  he  was  wearing. 
Mrs.  Clarke  stared  at  him  with  the  unself-conscious  directness 


374  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

which  was  characteristic  of  her.  She  saw  Dion  for  the  first 
time  since  the  tragedy  which  had  changed  his  life,  but  she  had 
written  to  him  more  than  once.  Her  last  letter  had  come  from 
Buyukderer.  He  had  answered  it,  but  he  had  not  told  her 
where  he  was,  had  not  even  hinted  to  her  that  he  might  come 
to  Constantinople.  Nevertheless,  she  did  not  now  show  any 
surprise.  She  just  looked  at  him  steadily,  absorbed  all  the 
change  in  him  swiftly,  and  addressed  herself  to  the  new  man 
who  stood  there  before  her. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  I'm  spending  the 
night  there,  and  go  back  to-morrow  to  Buyukderer.  I  had 
something  to  do  in  town." 

She  had  not  given  him  her  hand,  and  he  did  not  attempt 
to  take  it.  He  put  on  his  hat,  turned  and  walked  at  her  side. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  a  word  until  they  had  come  into  the 
uproar  of  the  Grande  Rue,  which  surrounded  them  with  a 
hideous  privacy.  Then  Mrs.  Clarke  said: 

"Where  are  you  staying?" 

"  At  Hughes's  Hotel." 

"  I  never  heard  of  it." 

"  It's  in  Briisa  Street.     It's  cheap." 

"  And  horrible,"  she  thought. 

But  she  did  not  say  so. 

"  I  have  only  been  here  three  days,"  Dion  added. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  once  said  to  you  I  knew  you 
would  come  back  to  Constantinople?" 

For  a  moment  his  face  was  distorted.  When  she  saw  that 
she  looked  away  gravely,  at  the  glittering  shops  and  at  the 
Perotes  who  were  passing  by  with  the  slow  and  lounging  walk 
which  they  affect  in  the  Grande  Rue.  Presently  she  heard 
him  say: 

"  You  were  right.  It  was  all  arranged.  It  was  all  planned 
out.  Even  then  I  believe  I  knew  it  would  be  so,  that  I  should 
come  back  here." 

"  Why  have  you  come?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  and  his  voice,  which  had  been 
hard  and  fierce,  became  suddenly  dull. 

"  He  really  believes  that,"  she  thought. 

"  Here  is  the  hotel,"  she  said.  "  I'm  all  alone.  Jimmy  has 
been  out,  but  has  had  to  go  back  to  Eton.  I  wish  you  had 
seen  him." 

"  Oh  no!  "  said  Dion,  almost  passionately. 

They  went  up  in  a  lift,  worked  by  a  Montenegrin  boy  with 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  375 

a  big  round  forehead,  to  her  sitting-room  on  the  second  floor. 
It  was  large,  bare  and  clean,  with  white  walls  and  awnings  at 
the  windows.  She  rang  the  bell.  A  Corsican  waiter  came 
and  she  ordered  tea.  The  roar  of  the  street  noises  penetrated 
into  the  shadowy  room  through  the  open  windows,  and  came 
to  Dion  like  heat.  He  remembered  the  silence  of  Claridge's. 
Suddenly  his  head  began  to  swim.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his 
life,  all  of  it  that  he  had  lived  till  that  moment,  was  spinning 
round  him,  and  that,  as  it  spun,  it  gave  out  a  deafening  noise 
and  glittered.  He  sat  down  on  a  chair  which  was  close  to  a 
small  table,  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and  hid  his  face  against 
them.  Still  the  deafening  noise  continued.  The  sum  of  it 
was  surely  made  up  of  the  uproar  of  the  Grande  Rue  with  the 
uproar  of  his  spinning  life  added  to  it.  He  saw  yellow  balls 
ringed  with  pale  blue  rapidly  receding  from  his  shut  eyes. 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  at  him  for  a  moment;  then  she  went 
into  the  adjoining  bedroom  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 
She  did  not  come  back  till  the  waiter  knocked  and  told  her 
that  tea  was  ready.  Then  she  opened  the  door.  She  had 
taken  off  her  hat  and  gloves,  and  looked  very  white  and  cool, 
and  very  composed. 

Dion  was  standing  up  near  the  windows.  The  waiter,  who 
had  enormously  thick  mustaches,  and  who  evidently  shaved 
in  the  evening  instead  of  in  the  morning,  was  going  out  at  the 
farther  door.  He  shut  it  rather  loudly. 

"  Every  one  makes  a  noise  in  Pera.  It's  de  rigueur,"  said 
Mrs.  Clarke,  coming  to  the  tea-table. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Dion,  "  I  used  to  think  you  looked 
punished?  " 

"Punished  — I!" 

There  was  a  sudden  defiance  in  her  voice  which  he  had  never 
heard  in  it  before.  He  came  up  to  the  table. 

"  Yes.  In  London  I  used  to  think  you  had  a  punished  look 
and  even  a  haunted  look.  Wasn't  that  ridiculous?  I  didn't 
know  then  what  it  meant  to  be  punished,  or  to  be  haunted. 
I  hadn't  enough  imagination  to  know,  not  nearly  enough.  But 
some  one  or  something's  seen  to  it  that  I  shall  know  all  about 
punishment  and  haunting.  So  I  shall  never  be  absurd  about 
you  again." 

After  a  pause  she  said : 

"  I  wonder  why  you  thought  that  about  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     It  just  came  into  my  head." 

"  Well,  sit  down  and  let  us  have  our  tea." 


376  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Dion  sat  down  mechanically,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  poured  out 
the  tea. 

"  I  wish  it  was  Buyukderer,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  like  the  uproar." 

"  No,  you  don't  —  you  don't.  Pera  is  spurious,  and  all  its 
voices  are  spurious  voices.  To-morrow  morning,  before  I  go 
back,  you  and  I  will  go  to  Eyub." 

"  To  the  dust  and  the  silence  and  the  cypresses  —  O  God !  " 
said  Dion. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair.  He  was  beginning  to  tremble. 
Was  it  coming  upon  him  at  last  then,  the  utter  breakdown 
which  through  all  these  months  he  had  —  somehow  —  kept  at 
a  distance?  Determined  not  to  shake,  he  exerted  his  will 
violently,  till  he  felt  as  if  he  were  with  dreadful  difficulty 
holding,  keeping  together,  a  multitude  of  living,  struggling 
things  which  were  trying  to  get  away  out  of  his  grasp.  And 
these  living,  struggling  things  were  the  multitudinous  parts  of 
the  whole  which  was  himself. 

All  that  now  was  had  been  foreshadowed.  There  had  been 
writing  on  the  wall. 

"  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  several  things.  I'm  not  going 
to  give  you  the  list  now.  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  tell  you 
what  they  are  ...  among  the  cypresses  of  Eyub." 

She  had  said  that  to  him  in  London,  and  her  voice  had  been 
fatalistic  as  she  spoke;  and  in  the  street  that  same  day,  on 
his  way  home,  the  voice  of  the  boy  crying  the  last  horror  had 
sounded  to  him  like  a  voice  from  the  sea,  a  strange  and  sad 
cry  lifted  up  between  Europe  and  Asia.  And  now 

"  How  did  you  know?  "  he  said.  "  How  did  you  know  that 
we  should  be  here  together  some  day?  " 

"  Sit  down.     You  must  sit  down." 

She  put  her  languid  and  imperative  hand  on  his  wrist,  and 
he  sat  down.  He  took  her  hand  and  put  it  against  his  fore- 
head for  a  moment.  But  that  was  no  use.  For  her  hand 
seemed  to  add  fever  to  his  fever. 

"  I  have  seen  you  standing  amongst  graves  in  the  shadow 
of  cypress  trees,"  he  said.  "  In  England  I  saw  you  like  that. 
But  —  how  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  Drink  your  tea.  Don't  hurry.  We've  got  such  a  long 
time." 

"  I  have.  I  have  all  the  days  and  the  nights  —  every  hour 
of  them  —  at  my  own  disposal.  I'm  the  freest  man  on  earth, 
I  suppose.  No  work,  no  ties." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  377 

"  You've  given  up  everything  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course.  That  is,  the  things  that  were  still  left  to 
me  to  give  up.  They  didn't  mean  much." 

"  Eat  something,"  she  said,  in  a  casual  voice,  pushing  a 
plate  of  delicious  little  cakes  towards  him. 

"  Thank  you." 

He  took  one  and  ate.  He  had  regained  self-control,  but 
he  knew  that  at  almost  any  moment,  if  anything  unusual  hap- 
pened, or  if  he  dared  to  think,  or  to  talk,  seriously  about  the 
horror  of  his  life,  he  would  probably  go  down  with  a  crash 
into  an  abyss  in  which  all  of  his  manhood,  every  scrap  of  his 
personal  dignity,  would  be  utterly  lost.  And  still  almost 
blindly  he  held  on  to  certain  things  in  the  blackness  which 
encompassed  him.  He  still  wished  to  play  the  man,  and 
though  in  bitterness  he  had  tried  sometimes  to  sink  down  in 
degradation,  his  body  —  or  so  it  had  seemed  to  him  —  had 
resisted  the  will  of  the  injured  soul,  which  had  said  to  it,  "  Go 
down  into  the  dirt;  seek  satisfaction  there.  Your  sanity  and 
your  purity  of  life  have  availed  you  nothing.  From  them  you 
have  had  no  reward.  Then  seek  the  rewards  of  the  other  life. 
Thousands  of  men  enjoy  them.  Join  that  crowd,  and  put  all 
the  anemic  absurdities  of  so-called  goodness  behind  you." 

He  had  almost  come  to  hate  the  state  he  conceived  of  as 
goodness;  yet  the  other  thing,  its  opposite,  evil,  he  instinctively 
rebelled  against  and  even  almost  feared.  The  habit  of  a  life- 
time was  not  to  be  broken  in  a  day,  or  even  in  many  days. 
Often  he  had  thought  of  himself  as  walking  in  nothingness, 
because  he  rejected  evil. 

Goodness  had  ruthlessly  cast  him  out;  and  so  far  he  had 
made  no  other  friend,  had  taken  no  other  comrade  to  his  bruised 
and  bleeding  heart. 

Mrs.  Clarke  began  to  talk  to  him  quietly.  She  talked  about 
herself,  and  he  knew  that  she  did  this  not  because  of  egoism, 
but  because  delicately  she  wished  to  give  him  a  full  oppor- 
tunity for  recovery.  She  had  seen  just  where  he  was,  and  she 
had  understood  his  recoil  from  the  abyss.  Now  she  wished, 
perhaps,  to  help  him  to  draw  back  farther  from  it,  to  draw 
back  so  far  that  he  would  no  longer  see  it  or  be  aware  of  it. 

So  she  talked  of  herself,  of  her  life  at  Buyukderer  in  the 
summer,  and  in  Pera  in  the  autumn  and  spring. 

"  I  don't  go  out  to  Buyukderer  till  the  middle  of  May,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  come  back  into  town  at  the  end  of  September." 

"  You  manage  to  stand  Pera  for  some  months  every  year?  " 


378  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

said  Dion,  listening  at  first  with  difficulty,  and  because  he  was 
making  a  determined  effort. 

"  Yes.  An  Englishwoman  —  even  a  woman  like  me  —  can't 
live  in  Stamboul.  And  Pera,  odious  as  it  is,  is  in  Constanti- 
nople, in  the  city  which  has  a  spell,  though  you  mayn't  feel 
it  yet." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  they  heard  the  roar  from 
the  Grande  Rue,  that  street  which  is  surely  the  noisiest  in 
all  Europe.  Hearing  it,  Dion  thought  of  the  silence  of  the 
Precincts  at  Welsley.  That  sweet  silence  had  cast  him  out. 
Hell  must  be  full  of  roaring  noises  and  of  intense  activities. 
Then  Mrs.  Clarke  went  on  talking.  There  was  something 
very  feminine  and  gently  enticing  in  her  voice,  which  resembled 
no  other  voice  ever  heard  by  Dion.  He  felt  kindness  at  the 
back  of  her  talk,  the  wish  to  alleviate  his  misery  if  only  for 
a  moment,  to  do  what  she  could  for  him.  She  could  do  nothing, 
of  course.  Nevertheless  he  began  to  feel  grateful  to  her.  She 
was  surely  unlike  other  women,  incapable  of  bearing  a  grudge. 
For  he  had  not  been  very  "  nice  "  to  her  in  the  days  when  he 
was  happy  and  she  was  in  difficulties.  At  this  moment  he 
vaguely  exaggerated  his  lack  of  "  niceness,"  and  perhaps  also 
her  pardoning  temperament.  In  truth,  he  was  desperately  in 
need  of  a  touch  from  the  magic  wand  of  sympathy.  Believing, 
or  even  perhaps  knowing,  that  to  the  incurably  wounded  man 
palliatives  are  of  no  lasting  avail,  he  had  deliberately  fled  from 
them,  and  gone  among  those  who  had  no  reason  to  bother 
about  him.  But  now  he  was  grateful. 

"  Go  on  talking,"  he  said  once,  when  she  stopped  speaking. 
And  she  continued  talking  about  her  life.  She  said  nothing 
more  about  Jimmy. 

The  Corsican  waiter  came  and  took  away  the  tea  things 
noisily.  Her  spell  was  broken.  For  a  moment  Dion  felt 
dazed. 

He  got  up. 

"  I  ought  to  go,"  he  said. 

"Must  you?  " 

"Must!  —  Oh  no!  My  time  is  my  own,  and  always  will 
be,  I  suppose." 

"  You  have  thrown  up  everything?  " 

"What  else  could  I  do?  The  man  who  killed  his  own  son! 
How  could  I  stay  in  London,  go  among  business  men  who  knew 
me,  talk  about  investments  to  clients?  Suppose  you  had  killed 
Jimmy!  " 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  379 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Then  he  said: 

"  I've  given  up  my  name.  I  call  myself  Mervyn  Denton. 
I  saw  the  name  in  a  novel  I  opened  on  a  railway  bookstall." 

She  got  up  and  came  near  to  him  quietly. 

"  This  is  all  wrong,"  she  said. 

"What  is?" 

"  All  you  are  doing,  the  way  you  are  taking  it  all." 

"  What  other  way  is  there  of  taking  such  a  thing?  " 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  to  Eyub  to-morrow?  " 

"  It  was  written  long  ago  that  I  am  to  go  there  with  you. 
I'm  quite  sure  of  that." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean  there  to-morrow." 

She  looked  towards  the  window. 

"  It's  like  the  roar  of  hell,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  away. 

That  night  Mrs.  Clarke  dined  alone  downstairs  in  the 
restaurant.  The  cooking  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris  was  famous, 
and  attracted  many  men  from  the  Embassies.  Presently  Cyril 
Vane,  one  of  the  secretaries  at  the  British  Embassy,  came  in 
to  dine.  He  had  with  him  a  young  Turkish  gentleman,  who 
was  called  away  by  an  agent  from  the  Palace  in  the  middle  of 
dinner.  Vane,  left  thus  alone,  presently  got  up  and  came  to 
Mrs.  Clarke's  table. 

"May  I  sit  down  and  talk  to  you  for  a  little?"  he  said, 
with  a  manner  that  testified  to  their  intimacy.  "  My  guest 
has  deserted  me." 

"  Yes,  do.  Tell  the  waiter  to  bring  the  rest  of  your  dinner 
here." 

"  But  I  have  finished." 

"  Light  your  cigar  then." 

"  If  you  don't  mind." 

They  talked  for  a  few  minutes  about  the  things  of  every 
day  and  the  little  world  they  both  lived  in  on  the  Bosporus; 
then  Mrs.  Clarke  said: 

"  I  met  a  friend  from  England  unexpectedly  to-day." 

"Did  you?" 

"  A  man  called  Dion  Leith." 

"Dion  Leith?"  repeated  Vane. 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"  Now  wait  a  moment !  " 

His  large,  cool  blue  eyes  became  meditative. 
"  It's  on  the  edge  of  my  mind  who  that  is,  and  yet  I  can't 
remember.     I  don't  know  him,  but  I'm  sure  I  know  of  him." 


380  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  He  fought  in  the  South  African  War." 

Suddenly  Vane  leaned  forward.     He  was  frowning. 

"  I've  got  it!  He  fought,  came  back  with  the  D.C.M.,  and 
only  a  few  days  afterwards  killed  his  only  child,  a  son,  out 
shooting.  I  remember  the  whole  thing  now,  the  inquest  at 
which  he  was  entirely  exonerated,  and  the  rumors  about  his 
wife.  She's  a  beautiful  woman,  they  say." 

"  Very  beautiful." 

"  She  took  it  very  badly,  didn't  she?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  very  badly?  " 

"  Didn't  she  bear  very  hard  on  him?  " 

"  She  couldn't  endure  to  see  him,  or  to  have  him  near  her. 
Is  that  very  wonderful  ?  " 

"  You  stand  up  for  her  then  ?  " 

"  She  was  first  and  foremost  a  mother." 

"  Do  you  know,"  Vane  said  rather  dryly,  "  you  are  the  only 
woman  I  never  hear  speak  against  other  women.  But  when 
the  whole  thing  was  an  accident?  " 

"  We  can't  always  be  quite  fair,  or  quite  reasonable,  when 
a  terrible  shock  comes  to  us." 

"  It's  a  problem,  a  terrible  problem  of  the  affections,"  Vane 
said.  "Had  she  loved  her  husband?  Do  you  know?" 

"  I  know  that  he  loved  her  very  much,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 
"  He  is  here  under  an  assumed  name." 

Vane  looked  openly  surprised  and  even,  for  a  moment,  rather 
disdainful. 

"  But  then  -  He  paused. 

"  Why  did  I  give  him  away?  " 

"  Well  —  yes." 

"  Because  I  wish  to  force  him  to  face  things  fully  and 
squarely.  It's  his  only  chance." 

"Won't  he  be  angry?" 

"  But  I  don't  mind  that." 

"  You've  had  a  reason  in  telling  me,"  said  Vane  quietly. 
"What  is  it?" 

"  Come  up  to  my  sitting-room.     We'll  have  coffee  there." 

"  Willingly.  I  feel  your  spell  even  when  you're  weaving  it 
for  another  man's  sake." 

Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  reject  the  compliment.  She  only  looked 
at  Vane,  and  said: 

"  Come." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  381 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  the  morning  Mrs.  Clarke  sent  a  messenger  to  Hughes's 
Hotel  asking  Dion  to  meet  her  at  the  landing-place  on 
the  right  of  the  Galata  Bridge  at  a  quarter  to  eleven. 

"  We  will  go  to  Eyub  by  caique,"  she  wrote,  "  and  lunch 
at  a  Turkish  cafe  I  know  close  to  the  mosque." 

She  drove  to  the  bridge.  When  she  came  in  sight  of  it  she 
saw  Dion  standing  on  it  alone,  looking  down  on  the  crowded 
water-way.  He  was  leaning  on  the  railing,  and  his  right 
cheek  rested  on  the  palm  of  his  brown  hand.  Mrs.  Clarke 
smiled  faintly  as  she  realized  that  this  man  who  was  waiting 
for  her  had  evidently  forgotten  all  about  her. 

She  dismissed  the  carriage,  paid  the  toll  and  walked  on  to 
the  bridge.  As  usual  there  was  a  crowd  of  pedestrians  passing 
to  and  fro  from  Galata  to  Stamboul  and  from  Stamboul  to 
Galata.  She  mingled  with  it,  went  up  to  Dion  and  stood  near 
him  without  uttering  a  word.  For  perhaps  two  minutes  she 
stood  thus  before  he  noticed  her.  Then  he  turned  and  sent 
her  a  hard,  almost  defiant  glance  before  he  recognized  who 
his  companion  was. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  it  was Why  didn't  you  speak? 

Is  it  time  to  go?  I  meant  to  be  at  the  landing." 

He  spoke  like  a  man  who  had  been  a  long  way  off,  and  who 
returned  weary  and  almost  dazed  from  that  distance.  He 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Please  forgive  me  for  putting  you  to  the  trouble  of  com- 
ing to  find  me." 

"  You  needn't  ever  ask  me  to  forgive  you  for  anything. 
Don't  let  us  bother  each  other  with  all  the  silly  little  things  that 
worry  the  fools.  We've  got  beyond  all  that  long  ago.  There's 
my  caique." 

She  made  a  signal  with  her  hand.  Two  Albanians  below  sa- 
luted her. 

"  Shall  we  go  at  once?  Or  would  you  rather  stay  here  a  lit- 
tle longer?" 

"  Let  us  go.     I  was  only  looking  at  the  water." 

He  turned  and  sent  a  long  glance  to  Stamboul. 

"Your  city!  "  he  said. 

"  I  shall  take  you." 


382  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

For  the  first  time  that  day  he  looked  at  her  intimately,  and 
his  look  said: 

"  Why  do  you  trouble  about  me?  " 

They  went  down,  got  into  the  caique,  and  were  taken  by  the 
turmoil  of  the  Golden  Horn.  Among  the  innumerable  caiques, 
the  steamboats,  the  craft  of  all  kinds,  they  went  out  into  the 
strong  sunshine,  guarded  on  the  one  hand  by  the  crowding,  dis- 
colored houses  of  Galata  rising  to  Pera,  on  the  other  hand  by 
the  wooden  dwellings  and  the  enormous  mosques  of  Stamboul. 
The  voices  of  life  pursued  them  over  the  water  and  they  sat  in 
silence  side  by  side.  Dion  made  no  social  attempt  to  enter- 
tain his  companion.  Had  she  not  just  said  to  him  that  long 
ago  they  had  gone  beyond  all  the  silly  little  things  that  worry 
the  fools?  In  the  midst  of  the  fierce  activity  and  the  riot  of 
noise  which  marks  out  the  Golden  Horn  from  all  other  water- 
ways, they  traveled  towards  emptiness,  silence,  the  desolation 
on  the  hill  near  the  sacred  place  of  the  Turks,  where  each  new 
Sultan  is  girded  with  the  sword  of  Osman,  and  where  the 
standard-bearer  of  the  Prophet  sleeps  in  the  tomb  that  was  seen 
in  a  vision. 

In  the  strong  heat  of  noon  they  left  the  caique  and  walked 
slowly  towards  the  hill  which  rises  to  the  north-east,  where 
the  dark  towers  of  the  cypresses  watch  over  the  innumerable 
graves.  Mrs.  Clarke  had  put  up  a  sun  umbrella.  Her  face 
was  protected  by  a  thin  white  veil.  She  wore  a  linen  dress, 
pale  gray  in  color,  with  white  lines  on  it,  and  long  loose  gloves 
of  suede.  She  looked  extraordinarily  thin.  Her  unshining, 
curiously  colorless  hair  was  partly  covered  by  a  small  hat  of 
burnt  straw,  turned  sharply  and  decisively  up  on  the  left  side 
and  trimmed  with  a  broad  riband  of  old  gold.  Dion  remem- 
bered that  he  had  thought  of  her  once  as  a  vision  seen  in 
water.  Now  he  was  with  her  in  the  staring  definite  clear- 
ness of  a  land  dried  by  the  heats  of  summer  and  giving  to  them 
its  dust.  And  she  was  at  home  in  this  aridity.  In  the  dust 
he  was  aware  of  the  definiteness  of  her.  Since  the  blackness 
had  overtaken  him  people  had  meant  to  him  less  than  shadows 
gliding  on  a  wall  mean  to  a  joyous  man.  Often  he  had  ob- 
served them,  even  sharply  and  with  a  sort  of  obstinate  per- 
sistence; he  had  been  trying  to  force  them  to  become  real  to 
him.  Invariably  he  had  failed  in  his  effort.  Mrs.  Clarke  was 
real  to  him  as  she  walked  in  silence  beside  him,  between  the 
handsome  railed-in  mausoleums  which  line  the  empty  roads 
from  the  water's  edge  almost  to  the  mosque  of  the  Conqueror. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  383 

A  banal  phrase  came  to  his  lips,  "  You  are  in  your  element 
here."  But  he  held  it  back,  remembering  that  they  walked  in 
the  midst  of  dust. 

Leaving  the  mosque  they  ascended  the  hill  and  passed  the 
Tekkeh  of  the  dancing  dervishes.  All  around  them  were  the 
Turkish  graves  with  their  leaning  headstones,  or  their  head- 
stones fallen  and  lying  prone  in  the  light  flaky  earth  above 
the  smoldering  corpses  of  the  dead.  Here  and  there  tight 
bunches  of  flowers  were  placed  upon  the  graves.  Gaunt 
shadows  from  old  cypresses  fell  over  some  of  them,  denning  the 
sunlight.  Below  was  the  narrowing  sea,  the  shallow  north-west 
arm  of  the  Golden  Horn,  which  stretches  to  Kiathareh,  where 
are  the  sweet  waters  of  Europe,  and  to  Kiahat  Haneh. 

"  We'll  sit  here,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  presently. 

And  she  sat  down,  with  the  folding  ease  almost  of  an  Orien- 
tal, on  the  warm  earth,  and  leaned  against  the  fissured  trunk 
of  a  cypress. 

Casually  she  had  seemed  to  choose  the  resting-place,  but  she 
had  chosen  it  well.  More  times  than  she  could  count  she  had 
come  to  that  exact  place,  had  leaned  against  that  cypress  and 
looked  down  the  Golden  Horn  to  the  divided  city,  one-half  of 
which  she  loved  as  she  loved  few  things,  one-half  of  which  she 
endured  for  the  sake  of  the  other. 

"  From  here,"  she  said  to  Dion,  "  I  can  feel  Stamboul." 

He  had  lain  down  near  to  her  sideways  and  rested  his  cheek 
on  his  hand.  The  lower  half  of  his  body  was  in  sunshine,  but 
the  cypress  threw  its  shadow  over  his  head  and  shoulders.  As 
Mrs.  Clarke  spoke  he  looked  down  the  Golden  Horn  to  the 
Turkish  city,  and  his  eyes  were  held  by  the  minarets  of  its 
mosques.  Seldom  had  he  looked  at  a  minaret  without  thinking 
of  prayer.  He  thought  of  prayer  now,  and  then  of  his  dead 
child,  of  the  woman  he  had  called  wife,  and  of  the  end  of  his 
happiness.  The  thought  came  to  him: 

"  I  was  kept  safe  in  the  midst  of  the  dangers  of  war  for  a 
reason;  and  that  reason  was  that  I  might  go  back  to  England 
and  kill  my  son." 

And  yet  every  day  men  went  up  into  these  minarets  and  called 
upon  other  men  to  bow  themselves  and  pray. 

God  is  great.  .  .  . 

In  the  sunlit  silence  of  the  vast  cemetery  the  wheels  of  Dion's 
life  seemed  for  a  moment  to  cease  from  revolving. 

God  is  great  —  great  in  His  power  to  inflict  misery  upon 
men.  And  so  pray  to  Him!  Mount  upon  the  minarets,  go  up 


384  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

high,  till  you  are  taken  by  the  blue,  till,  at  evening,  you  are 
nearer  to  the  stars  than  other  men,  and  pray  to  Him  and  proclaim 
His  glory.  For  He  is  the  repository  of  the  power  to  cover  you 
with  misery  as  with  a  garment,  and  to  lay  you  even  with  the 
dust.  Pray  then  —  pray!  Unless  the  garment  is  upon  you, 
unless  the  dust  is  already  about  you! 

Dion  lay  on  the  warm  earth  and  looked  at  the  distant  mina- 
rets, and  smiled  at  the  self-seeking  slave-instinct  in  men,  which 
men  sought  to  glorify,  to  elevate  into  a  virtue. 

"  Why  are  you  smiling?  "  said  a  husky  voice  above  him. 

He  did  not  look  up,  but  he  answered: 

"  Because  I  was  looking  at  those  towers  of  prayer." 

"  The  minarets." 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes ;  after  a  while  she  said : 

"  You  remember  the  first  time  you  met  me?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  was  in  great  difficulties  then.  They  culminated  in  the 
scandal  of  my  divorce  case.  Tell  me,  how  did  you  think  I 
faced  all  that  trouble?" 

"  With  marvelous  courage." 

"  In  what  other  way  can  thoroughbred  people  face  an  enemy? 
Suppose  I  had  lost  instead  of  won,  suppose  Jimmy  had  been 
taken  from  me,  do  you  think  it  would  have  broken  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine  anything  breaking  you,"  said  Dion.  "  But 
I  don't  believe  you  ever  pray." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  I  believe  the  people  who  pray  are  the  potential  cowards." 

"  Do  you  pray  ?  " 

"  Not  now.  That's  why  I  was  smiling  when  I  looked  at 
the  minarets.  But  I  don't  make  a  virtue  of  it.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  pray  for." 

"  Well  then,  if  you  have  put  away  prayer,  that  means  you  are 
going  to  rely  on  yourself." 

"What  for?" 

"  For  all  the  sustaining  you  will  need  in  the  future.  The 
people  commonly  called  good  think  of  God  as  something  out- 
side themselves  to  which  they  can  apply  in  moments  of  fear, 
necessity  and  sorrow.  If  you  have  really  got  beyond  that 
conception  you  must  rely  on  yourself,  find  in  yourself  all  you 
need." 

"  But  I  need  nothing  —  you  don't  understand." 

"  You  nearly  told  me  yesterday." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  385 

"  Perhaps  if  you  hadn't  gone  out  of  the  room  I  should  have 
been  obliged  to  tell  you,  but  not  because  I  wished  to." 

"  I  understood  that.  That  is  why  I  went  out  of  the  room  and 
left  you  alone." 

For  the  first  time  Dion  looked  up  at  her.  She  had  lifted  her 
veil,  and  her  haggard,  refined  face  was  turned  towards  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said. 

At  that  moment  he  liked  her  as  he  had  never  liked  her  in 
the  past 

"  Can  you  tell  me  now  because  you  wish  to?  " 

"Here  among  the  graves?" 

"  Yes." 

Again  he  looked  at  the  distant  minarets  lifted  towards  the 
blue  near  the  way  of  the  sea.  But  he  said  nothing.  She  shut 
her  sun  umbrella,  laid  it  on  the  ground  beside  her,  pulled  off  her 
gloves  and  spread  them  out  on  her  knees  slowly.  She  seemed 
to  be  hesitating;  for  she  looked  down  and  for  a  moment  she 
knitted  her  brows.  Then  she  said: 

"  Tell  me  why  you  came  to  Constantinople." 

"  I  couldn't." 

"  If  I  hadn't  met  you  in  the  street  by  chance,  would  you  have 
come  to  see  me?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  should." 

"  And  yet  it  was  I  who  willed  you  to  come  here." 

Dion  did  not  seem  surprised.  There  was  something  remote 
in  him  which  perhaps  could  not  draw  near  to  such  a  simple 
commonplace  feeling  in  that  moment.  He  had  gone  out  a 
long  way,  a  very  long  way,  from  the  simple  ordinary  emotions 
which  come  upon,  or  beset,  normal  men  living  normal  lives. 

"  Did  you?  "  he  asked.     "  Why?  " 

"  I  thought  I  could  do  something  for  you.  I  began  last 
night." 

"What?" 

"  Doing  something  for  you.  I  told  an  acquaintance  of  mine 
called  Vane,  who  is  attached  to  the  British  Embassy,  that  you 
were  here." 

A  fierce  flush  came  into  Dion's  face. 

"  I  said  you  would  probably  come  out  to  Buyukderer,"  she 
continued,  "  and  that  I  wanted  to  bring  you  to  the  summer 
Embassy  and  to  introduce  you  to  the  Ambassador  and  Lady 
Ingleton." 

Dion  sat  up  and  pressed  his  hands  palm  downwards  on  the 
ground. 


386  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I  shall  not  go.  How  could  you  say  that  I  was  here?  You 
knew  I  had  dropped  my  own  name." 

"  I  gave  it  back  to  you  deliberately." 

"  I  think  that  was  very  brutal  of  you,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  tense  with  anger. 

"  You  wanted  to  be  very  kind  to  me  when  I  was  in  great  diffi- 
culties. Circumstances  got  rather  in  the  way.  That  doesn't 
matter.  The  intention  was  there,  though  you  were  too  chival- 
rous to  go  very  far  in  action." 

"  Chivalrous  to  whom?  " 

"  To  her." 

His  face  went  pale  under  its  sunburn. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  that  was  al- 
most terrible.  "  Where  are  you  taking  me?  " 

"Into  the  way  you  must  walk  in.  Dion " — even  in 

calling  him  by  his  Christian  name  for  the  first  time  her  voice 
sounded  quite  impersonal  — "  you've  done  nothing  wrong.  You 
have  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  be  ashamed  of.  Kismet! 
We  have  to  yield  to  fate.  If  you  slink  through  the  rest  of 
your  years  on  earth,  if  you  get  rid  of  your  name  and  hide  your- 
self away,  you  Avill  be  just  a  coward.  But  you  aren't  a  coward, 
and  you  are  not  going  to  act  like  one.  You  must  accept  your 
fate.  You  must  take  it  right  into  your  heart  bravely  and 
proudly,  or,  if  you  can't  do  that,  stoically.  I  should." 

"  If  you  had  killed  Jimmy?" 

She  was  silent. 

"  If  you  had  killed  Jimmy?  "  he  repeated,  in  a  hard  voice. 

"  I  should  never  hide  myself.     I  should  always  face  things." 

"  You  haven't  had  the  blow  I  have  had.  I  know  I  am  not 
in  fault.  I  know  I  have  nothing  to  blame  myself  for.  I 
wasn't  even  careless  with  my  gun.  If  I  had  been  I  could  never 
have  forgiven  myself.  But  I  wasn't." 

"  It  was  the  pony.  I  know.  I  read  the  account  of  the  in- 
quest. You  were  absolutely  exonerated." 

"  Yes.  The  coroner  and  the  jury  expressed  their  deep  sym- 
pathy with  me,"  he  said,  with  intense  bitterness.  "  They  real- 
ized how  —  how  I  loved  my  little  boy.  But  the  woman  I  loved 
more  even  than  my  boy,  whom  I  had  loved  for  ever  since  I  first 
saw  her  —  well,  she  didn't  feel  at  all  as  the  coroner  and  the 
jury  did." 

"  Where  is  she?  I  hear  now  and  then  from  Beatrice  Daven- 
try,  but  she  never  mentions  her  sister." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  387 

"  She  is  in  Liverpool  doing  religious  work,  I  believe.  She 
has  given  herself  to  religion." 

"What  does  that  mean  exactly?" 

"  People  give  themselves  to  God,  don't  they,  sometimes?  " 

"  Do  they?  "  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  with  her  curious  grave  direct- 
ness, which  seemed  untouched  by  irony. 

"  It  seems  a  way  out  of  —  things.  But  she  always  had  a 
tendency  that  way." 

"Towards  the  religious  life?  " 

"  Yes.  She  always  cared  for  God  a  great  deal  more  than 
she  cared  for  me.  She  cared  for  God  and  for  Robin,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  just  beginning  to  care  for  me  when  I  deprived  her 
of  Robin.  Since  then  she  has  hated  me." 

He  spoke  quietly,  sternly.  All  the  emotion  of  which  she 
had  been  conscious  on  the  previous  afternoon  had  left  him. 

"  I  didn't  succeed  in  making  her  love  me!  "  he  continued. 
"  I  thought  I  had  gained  a  good  deal  in  South  Africa.  When 
I  came  back  I  felt  I  was  starting  again,  and  that  I  should 
carry  things  through.  Robin  felt  the  difference  in  me  directly. 
He  would  have  got  to  care  for  me  very  much,  and  I  could 
have  done  a  great  deal  for  him  when  he  had  got  older.  But 
God  didn't  see  things  that  way.  He  had  planned  it  all  out 
differently.  When  I  was  with  her  in  Greece,  one  day  I  tore 
down  a  branch  of  wild  olive  and  stripped  the  leaves  from  it. 
She  saw  me  do  it,  and  it  distressed  her  very  much.  She  had 
been  dreaming  over  a  child,  and  my  action  shattered  her  dream, 
I  suppose.  Women  have  dreams  men  can't  quite  understand 
—  about  children.  She  forgave  me  for  that  almost  directly. 
She  knew  I  would  never  have  done  anything  to  make  her  un- 
happy even  for  a  moment,  if  I  had  thought.  Now  I  have 
broken  her  life  to  pieces,  and  there's  no  question  of  forgiveness. 
If  there  were,  I  should  not  speak  of  her  to  you.  We  are  abso- 
lutely parted  forever.  She  would  take  the  hand  of  the  most 
dreadful  criminal  rather  than  my  hand.  She  has  a  horror  of 
me.  I'm  the  thing  that's  killed  her  child." 

He  looked  down  at  the  dilapidated  graves,  and  then  at  the 
lonely  water  which  seemed  trying  to  hide  itself  away  in  the  re- 
cesses of  the  bare  land. 

"  That's  how  it  is.  Robin  forgave  me.  He  was  alive  for  a 
moment  —  after,  and  I  saw  by  his  eyes  he  understood.  Yes, 
he  understood  —  he  understood !  " 

Suddenly  his  body  began  to  shake  and  his  arms  jerked  con- 


388  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

vulsively.  Instinctively,  but  quite  quietly,  Mrs.  Clarke  put  out 
her  hand  as  if  she  were  going  to  lay  hold  of  his  right  arm. 

"No  —  don't!  "  he  said.  "Yesterday  your  hand  made  me 
worse." 

She  withdrew  her  hand.  Her  face  did  not  change.  She 
seemed  wholly  unconscious  of  any  rudeness  on  his  part. 

"  Let's  move  —  let's  walk!  "  he  said. 

He  sprang  up.  When  he  was  on  his  feet  he  regained  control 
of  his  body. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
not  ill." 

"  My  friend,  it  will  have  to  come,"  she  said,  getting  up  too. 

"What?" 

But  she  did  not  reply. 

"  I've  never  been  like  this  till  now,"  he  added  vaguely. 

She  knew  why,  but  she  did  not  tell  him.  She  was  a  woman 
who  knew  how  to  wait. 

They  wandered  away  through  that  cemetery  above  the 
Golden  Horn,  among  the  cypresses  and  the  leaning  and  fallen 
tombstones.  Now  and  then  they  saw  veiled  women  pausing 
beside  the  graves  with  flowers  in  their  hands,  or  fading  among 
the  cypress  trunks  into  sunlit  spaces  beyond.  Now  and  then 
they  saw  a  man  praying.  Once  they  came  to  a  tomb  where 
children  were  sitting  in  a  circle  chanting  the  Koran  with  a 
sound  like  the  sound  of  bees. 

Before  they  went  down  to  the  Turkish  cafe,  which  is  close 
to  the  holy  mosque,  they  stood  for  a  long  while  together  on 
the  hillside,  looking  at  distant  Stamboul.  The  cupolas  of  the 
many  mosques  and  the  tall  and  speary  minarets  gave  their 
Eastern  message  —  that  message  which,  even  to  Protestant  men 
from  the  lands  of  the  West,  is  as  the  thrilling  sound  of  a  still, 
small  voice.  And  the  voice  will  not  be  gainsaid;  it  whispers, 
"  In  the  East  thou  shalt  find  me  if  thou  hast  not  found  me  in 
the  West." 

"  Why  do  you  care  for  Stamboul  so  much  ?  "  Dion  asked  his 
companion.  "  I  think  you  are  utterly  without  religion.  I  may 
be  wrong,  but  I  think  you  are.  And  Stamboul  is  full  of  calls 
to  prayer  and  of  places  for  men  to  worship  in." 

"  Oh,  there  is  something,"  she  answered.  "  There  is  the  Un- 
known God." 

"  The  Unknown  God  ?  "  he  repeated,  with  a  sort  of  still  bit- 
terness. 

"  And  His  city  is  Stamboul  —  for  me.     When  the  muezzin 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  389 

calls  I  bow  myself  in  ignorance.  What  He  is,  I  don't  know. 
All  I  know  is  that  men  cannot  explain  Him  to  me,  or  teach 
me  anything  about  Him.  But  Stamboul  has  lures  for  me.  It 
is  not  only  the  city  of  many  prayers,  it  is  also  the  city  of  many 
forgetfulnesses.  The  old  sages  said,  '  Eat  not  thy  heart  nor 
mourn  the  buried  Past.'  Stay  here  for  a  time,  and  learn  to 
obey  that  command.  Perhaps,  eventually,  Stamboul  will  help 
you." 

"  Nothing  can  help  me,"  he  answered. 

They  went  down  the  hill  by  the  Tekkeh  of  the  Dancing 
Dervishes. 


Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  go  back  to  her  villa  at  Buyukderer  that 
day.  It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon  when  her  cai'que 
touched  the  wharf  at  the  foot  of  the  Galata  bridge. 

"  I  shall  stay  another  night  at  the  hotel,"  she  said  to  Dion. 
"  Will  you  drive  up  with  me  ?  " 

He  assented.     When  they  reached  the  hotel  he  said: 

"  May  I  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

When  they  were  in  the  dim,  rather  bare  room  with  the  white 
walls,  between  which  the  fierce  noises  from  the  Grande  Rue 
found  a  home,  he  said: 

"  I  feel  before  I  leave  I  must  speak  about  what  you  did  last 
night,  the  message  you  gave  to  Vane  of  our  Embassy.  I  dare 
say  you  are  right  and  that  I  ought  to  face  things.  But  no  one 
can  judge  for  a  man  in  my  situation,  a  man  who's  had  every- 
thing cut  from  under  him.  I  haven't  ended  it  That  proves 
I've  got  a  remnant  of  something  —  you  needn't  call  it  strength 
—  left  in  me.  Since  you've  told  my  name,  I'll  take  it  back. 
Perhaps  it  was  cowardly  to  give  it  up.  I  believe  it  was.  Robin 
might  think  so,  if  he  knew.  And  he  may  know  things.  But  I 
can't  meet  casual  people." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  did  what  I  did  partly  for  myself,"  she  said, 
taking  off  her  little  hat  and  laying  it,  with  her  gloves,  on  a 
table. 

"For  yourself?    Why?" 

"  I'll  explain  to-morrow.  I  shall  see  you  before  I  go.  Come 
for  me  at  ten,  will  you,  and  we'll  drive  to  Stamboul.  I'll  tell 
you  there." 

"  Please  tell  me  now,  if  you're  not  tired  after  being  out  all 
day." 


390  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  I'm  never  tired." 

"  Once  Mrs.  Chetwinde  told  me  that  you  were  made  of  iron." 

Mrs.  Clarke  sent  him  a  curious  keen  glance  of  intense  and 
almost  lambent  inquiry,  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  The  strong 
interest  that  notices  things  was  absent  from  him.  Would  it 
ever  be  in  him  again? 

"  I  suppose  I  have  a  good  deal  of  stamina,"  she  said  casually. 
"  Well,  sit  down,  and  I'll  try  to  explain." 

She  lit  a  cigarette  and  sat  on  a  divan  in  the  far  corner  of 
the  large  room,  between  one  of  the  windows  and  the  door  which 
led  into  the  bedroom.  Dion  sat  down,  facing  her  and  the  noise 
from  the  Grande  Rue.  He  wondered  for  a  moment  why  she 
had  chosen  a  place  so  close  to  the  window. 

"  I  had  a  double  reason  for  doing  what  I  did,"  she  said. 
"  One  part  unselfish,  the  other  not  I'll  be  very  frank.  I 
willed  that  you  should  come  here." 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  wanted  to  help  you.  You  don't 
think  I,  or  any  one,  can  do  that  You  think  everything  is  over 
for  you " 

"  I  know  it  is,"  he  interrupted,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  cold 
and  dull  and  final. 

"  You  think  that.  Any  man  like  you,  in  your  situation, 
would  think  that.  Let  us  leave  it  for  the  moment.  I  wished 
you  to  come  here,  and  willed  you  to  come  here.  For  some 
reason  you  have  come.  You  didn't  let  me  know  you  were  here, 
but,  by  chance  as  it  seems,  we  met.  I  don't  mean  to  lose  sight 
of  you.  I  intend  that  you  shall  come  either  to  Buyukderer, 
or  to  some  place  on  the  Bosporus  not  far  off  that's  endurable  in 
the  summer,  and  that  you  shall  stay  there  for  a  time." 

"Why?" 

"  I  want  to  find  out  if  I  can  be  of  any  good  to  you." 

"  You  can't.  I  don't  even  know  why  you  wish  to.  But  you 
can't." 

"  We'll  leave  that,"  she  said,  with  inflexible  composure.  "  I 
don't  much  care  what  you  think  about  it.  I  shan't  be  gov- 
erned, or  affected  even,  by  that.  The  point  is,  I  mean  you  to 
come.  How  are  you  to  come,  surreptitiously  or  openly,  sneak- 
ing in  by-ways,  your  real  name  concealed,  or  treading  the 
highway,  your  real  name  known?  For  your  own  sake  it  must 
be  openly  and  with  your  own  name,  and  for  my  sake  too.  You 
need  to  face  your  great  tragedy,  to  stand  right  up  to  it.  It's 
your  only  chance.  A  man  is  always  pursued  by  what  he  runs 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  ,91 

away  from;  he  can  always  make  a  friend  of  what  he  stands 
up  to." 

"A  friend?" 

His  voice  broke  in  with  the  most  piercing  and  bitter  irony 
through  the  many  noises  in  the  room  —  sounds  of  cries,  of  car- 
riage wheels,  of  horses'  hoofs  ringing  on  an  uneven  pavement,  of 
iron  shutters  being  pulled  violently  down  over  shop  fronts,  of 
soldiers  marching,  of  distant  bugles  calling,  of  guitars  and 
mandolins  accompanying  a  Neapolitan  song. 

"  Yes,  a  friend,"  said  the  husky  and  inflexible,  but  very 
feminine  voice,  which  resembled  no  other  voice  of  woman  that 
he  had  ever  heard.  "  So  much  for  my  thought  of  you.  And 
now  for  my  thought  of  myself.  I  am  a  woman  who  has  faced 
a  great  scandal  and  come  out  of  it  the  winner.  I  was  horribly 
attacked,  and  I  succeeded  in  what  the  papers  call  reestablish- 
ing my  reputation.  You  and  I  know  very  well  what  that 
means.  I  know  by  personal  experience,  you  by  the  behavior  of 
your  own  wife." 

Dion  moved  abruptly  like  a  man  in  physical  pain,  but  Mrs. 
Clarke  continued: 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  hurting  you.  You  and 
I  must  be  frank  with  each  other,  or  we  can  be  of  no  use  to 
each  other.  After  what  has  happened  many  women  might  be 
inclined  to  avoid  me  as  your  wife  did.  Fortunately  I  have  so 
many  friends  who  believe  in  me  that  I  am  in  a  fairly  strong 
position.  I  don't  want  to  weaken  that  position  on  account  of 
Jimmy.  Now,  if  you  came  to  Buyukderer  under  an  assumed 
name,  I  couldn't  introduce  you  to  any  one,  or  explain  you  with- 
out telling  lies.  Gossip  runs  along  the  shores  of  the  Bosporus 
like  fire  along  a  hayrick.  How  can  I  be  seen  perpetually  with 
a  man  whom  I. never  introduce  to  any  of  my  friends,  who  isn't 
known  at  his  own  Embassy?  Both  for  your  own  sake  and  for 
mine  we  must  be  frank  about  the  whole  thing." 

"  But  I  never  said  I  should  come  to  Buyukderer,"  he  said. 

And  there  was  a  sort  of  dull,  lifeless  obstinacy  in  his  voice. 

"  You  have  come  to  Constantinople  and  you  will  come  to 
Buyukderer,"  she  replied  quietly. 

He  looked  at  her  across  the  room.  The  light  was  beginning 
to  fade,  but  still  the  awnings  were  drawn  down  beyond  the 
windows,  darkening  the  large  bare  room.  He  saw  her  as  a 
study  in  gray  and  white,  with  colorless,  unshining  hair,  a  body 
so  thin  and  flexible  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  it  contained 
nerves  like  a  network  of  steel  and  muscles  capable  of  prolonged 


392  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

endurance,  a  face  that  was  haggard  in  its  white  beauty,  eyes 
that  looked  enormous  and  fixed  in  the  twilight.  The  whole 
aspect  of  her  was  melancholy  and  determined,  beautiful  and 
yet  almost  tragic.  He  felt  upon  him  the  listless  yet  imperative 
grasp  which  he  had  first  known  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  drawing- 
room,  the  grasp  which  resembled  Stamboul's. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  go  to  Buyukderer,"  he  said  slowly.  "  But 
I  don't  know  why  you  wish  it." 

"  I  have  always  liked  you." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  have." 

"  I  don't  care  to  see  a  man  such  as  you  are  destroyed  by  a 
good  woman." 

He  got  up. 

"  No  one  is  destroying  me,"  he  said,  with  a  dull  and  hope- 
less defiance. 

"  Dion,  don't  misunderstand  me.  It  wouldn't  be  strange  if 
you  thought  I  bore  your  wife  a  grudge  because  she  didn't  care 
about  knowing  me.  But,  honestly,  I  am  indifferent  to  a  great 
many  things  that  most  women  fuss  about.  I  quite  understood 
her  reluctance.  Directly  I  saw  her  I  knew  that  she  had  ideals, 
and  that  she  expected  all  those  who  were  intimately  in  her  life 
to  live  up  to  them.  Instead  of  accepting  the  world  as  it  has 
been  created,  such  women  must  go  one  better  than  the  Creator 
(if  there  is  one),  and  invent  an  imaginary  world.  Now  I 
shouldn't  be  at  home  in  an  imaginary  world.  I'm  not  good 
enough  for  that,  and  don't  want  to  be.  Your  wife  is  very  good, 
but  she  lives  for  herself,  for  her  own  virtues  and  the  peace  and 
happiness  she  gets  out  of  them." 

"  She  lived  for  Robin,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Robin  was  a  part  of  herself,"  Mrs.  Clarke  said  dryly. 
"  Women  like  that  don't  know  how  to  love  as  lovers,  because 
they  care  for  the  virtues  in  men  rather  than  for  the  men  them- 
selves. They  are  robed  in  ideals,  and  they  are  in  mortal  fear 
of  a  speck  of  dust  falling  on  the  robe.  The  dust  of  my  scan- 
dal was  upon  me,  so  your  wife  avoided  me.  That  I  was  inno- 
cent didn't  matter.  I  had  been  mixed  up  with  something  ugly. 
Your  chivalry  was  instinctively  on  the  side  of  justice.  Her 
virtue  inclined  to  the  other  side.  Her  virtue  is  destructive." 

He  was  silent. 

"  Now  it  has  driven  you  out  like  a  scapegoat  into  the  wilder- 
ness!" 

"No,  no!  "  he  muttered,  without  conviction. 

"  But  don't  let  it  destroy  you.     I  would  rather  deliberately 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  393 

destroy  myself  than  let  any  one  destroy  me.  In  the  one  case 
there's  strength  of  a  kind,  in  the  other  there's  no  strength  at  all. 
I  speak  very  plainly,  but  I'm  not  a  woman  full  of  ideals.  I 
accept  the  world  just  as  it  is,  men  just  as  they  are.  If  a  speck 
of  dust  alights  on  me,  I  don't  think  myself  hopelessly  befouled; 
and  if  some  one  I  loved  made  a  slip,  I  should  only  think  that  it 
is  human  to  err  and  that  it's  humanity  I  love." 

"Humanity!"  he  repeated,  looking  down.  "Ah!"  He 
sighed  deeply. 

He  raised  his  head. 

"  And  if  some  one  you  loved  killed  your  Jimmy?  " 

"As  you ?" 

"Yes  — yes?" 

"  I  should  love  him  all  the  more  because  of  the  misery  added 
to  him,"  she  said  firmly.  "  There's  only  one  thing  a  really 
great  love  can't  forgive." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  deliberate  desire  and  intention  to  hurt  it  and  degrade 
it." 

"  I  never  had  that." 

"  No." 

"  Then  —  then  you  think  she  never  loved  me  at  all?  " 

But  Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  answer  that  question. 

The  daylight  was  rapidly  failing.  She  seemed  almost  to  be 
fading  away  in  the  dimness  and  in  the  noises  of  evening  which 
rose  from  the  Grande  Rue.  Yet  something  of  her  remained  and 
was  very  definite,  so  definite  that  even  Dion,  broken  on  the 
wheel  and  indifferent  to  casual  influences  as  few  men  are  ever 
indifferent,  felt  it  almost  powerfully  —  the  concentration  of  her 
will,  the  unyielding  determination  of  her  mind,  active  and  in- 
tense behind  the  pale  mask  of  her  physical  body. 

He  turned  away  and  went  to  the  window  farthest  from  her. 
He  leaned  out  to  the  Grande  Rue.  Above  his  head  was  the 
sloping  awning.  It  seemed  to  him  to  serve  as  a  sounding-board 
to  the  fierce  noises  of  the  mongrel  city. 

"Start  again!  " 

Surely  among  the  voices  of  the  city  now  filling  his  ears  there 
was  a  husky  voice  which  said  that. 

Had  Mrs.  Clarke  spoken? 

"  Start  again." 

But  not  on  the  familiar  road!  To  do  that  would  be  impos- 
sible. If  there  were  indeed  any  new  life  for  him  it  must  be  an 
utterly  different  life  from  any  he  had  known. 


394  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

He  had  tried  the  straight  life  of  unselfishness,  purity,  fidel- 
ity and  devotion  —  devotion  to  a  woman  and  also  to  a  manly 
ideal.  That  life  had  convulsively  rejected  him.  Had  he  still 
within  him  sufficient  energy  of  any  kind  to  lay  hold  on  a  new 
life? 

For  a  moment  he  saw  before  him  under  the  awning  Robin's 
eyes  as  they  had  been  when  his  little  son  was  dying  in  his 
arms. 

He  drew  back  from  the  street.  The  sitting-room  was  empty, 
but  the  door  between  it  and  the  bedroom  was  open.  No  doubt 
Mrs.  Clarke  had  gone  in  there  to  put  away  her  hat.  As  he 
looked  at  the  door  the  Russian  maid,  whom  he  had  seen  at  Park 
Side,  Knightsbridge,  came  from  the  inner  room. 

"  Madame  hopes  Monsieur  will  call  to  see  her  to-morrow  be- 
fore she  starts  to  Buyukderer,"  she  said,  with  her  strong  foreign 
accent. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dion. 

As  he  went  out  the  maid  shut  the  bedroom  door. 


CHAPTER  III 

TWO  days  later  Mrs.  Clarke  sat  with  the  British  Ambas- 
sadress in  the  British  Palace  at  Therapia,  a  building 
of  wood  with  balconies  looking  over  the  Bosporus. 
She  was  alone  with  Lady  Ingleton  in  the  latter's  sitting-room, 
which  was  filled  with  curious  Oriental  things,  with  flowers,  and 
with  little  dogs  of  the  Pekinese  breed,  who  lay  about  in  various 
attitudes  of  contentment,  looking  serenely  imbecile,  and  as  if 
they  were  in  danger  of  water  on  the  brain. 

Lady  Ingleton  was  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  was 
a  woman  wholly  indifferent  to  the  prejudices  which  govern 
ordinary  persons.  'She  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  life 
abroad,  and  looked  like  a  weary  Italian,  though  she  was  half 
English,  a  quarter  Irish,  and  a  quarter  French.  She  was  very 
dark,  and  had  large,  dreamy  dark  eyes  which  knew  how  to  look 
bored,  a  low  voice  which  could  say  very  sharp  things  at  times, 
and  a  languid  manner  which  concealed  more  often  than  it  be- 
trayed an  intelligence  always  on  the  alert. 

"What  is  it,  Cynthia?"  said  Lady  Ingleton.     "But  first 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  395 

tell  me  if  you  like  this  Sine  carpet  I  found  it  in  the  bazaar 
last  Thursday,  and  it  cost  the  eyes  out  of  my  head.  Carey,  of 
course,  has  said  for  the  hundredth  time  that  I  am  ruining  him, 
and  bringing  his  red  hair  in  sorrow  to  the  tomb.  Even  if  I  am, 
it  seems  to  me  the  carpet  is  worth  it." 

Mrs.  Clarke  studied  the  carpet  for  a  moment  with  earnest  at- 
tention. She  even  knelt  down  to  look  closely  at  it,  and  passed 
her  hands  over  it  gently,  while  Lady  Ingleton  watched  her  with 
a  sort  of  dark  and  still  admiration. 

"  It's  a  marvel,"  she  said,  getting  up.  "  If  you  had  let  it 
go  I  should  almost  have  despised  you." 

"  Please  tell  that  to  Carey  when  he  comes  to  you  to  complain. 
And  now,  what  is  it?  " 

"  You  remember  several  months  ago  the  tragedy  of  a  man 
called  Dion  Leith,  who  fought  in  the  South  African  War,  came 
home  and  almost  immediately  after  his  return  killed  his  only 
son  by  mistake  out  shooting?  " 

"  Yes.  You  knew  him,  I  think  you  said.  He  was  married 
to  that  beautiful  Rosamund  Everard  who  used  to  sing.  I  heard 
her  once  at  Tippie  Chetwinde's.  Esme  Darlington  was  a  great 
admirer  of  hers,  of  course  pour  le  bon  motif." 

"  Dion  Leith's  here." 

"In  Therapia?" 

"  No,  in  a  hideous  little  hotel  in  Constantinople." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows.  His  wife  has  given  him  up.  She 
was  a  mother,  not  a  lover,  so  you  can  imagine  her  feelings  about 
the  man  who  killed  her  child.  It  seems  she  was  une  mere 
folle.  She  has  left  him  and,  according  to  him,  has  given  her- 
self to  God.  He's  in  a  most  peculiar  condition.  He  was  a 
model  husband,  absolutely  devoted  and  entirely  irreproachable. 
Even  before  marriage,  I  should  think  he  had  kept  out  of  the 
way  of  —  things.  The  athlete  with  ideals  —  he  was  that,  one 
supposes." 

"  How  extraordinarily  attractive !  "  said  Lady  Ingleton,  in  a 
lazy  and  rather  drawling  voice. 

"  So  he  had  a  great  deal  to  fasten  on  the  woman  who  has 
cast  him  out.  Just  now,  like  the  coffin  of  Mohammed,  he's  sus- 
pended. That's  the  impression  I  get  from  him." 

"  Do  you  want  to  bring  him  down  to  earth?  " 

"  All  he's  known  and  cared  for  in  life  has  failed  him.  He 
was  traveling  under  an  assumed  name  even,  for  fear  people 
should  point  him  out  as  the  man  who  killed  his  own  son.  A1J 


396  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

that  sort  of  thing  is  no  use.  I  gave  his  secret  away  deliberately 
to  young  Vane,  and  asked  him  to  speak  to  the  Ambassador. 
And  now  I've  come  to  you.  I  want  you  to  have  him  here  once 
or  twice  and  to  be  nice  to  him.  Then  I  can  see  something  of 
him,  poor  fellow,  and  do  something  for  him." 

A  faint  smile  curved  Lady  Ingleton's  sensitive  lips. 

"  Of  course.     Then  he's  coming  to  the  Bosporus  ?  " 

"  He'll  probably  spend  some  time  at  Buyukderer.  He  must 
face  his  fate  and  take  up  life  again." 

"  He  doesn't  intend  to  do  what  his  wife  has  done?  " 

Lady  Ingleton  was  still  smiling  faintly. 

"  I  should  say  his  experience  rather  inclines  him  to  take  an 
opposite  direction." 

"  Is  he  good-looking?  " 

"  What  he  has  been  through  has  ravaged  his  face." 

"  That  probably  makes  him  much  handsomer  than  he  ever 
was  before." 

"  He  hates  the  thought  of  meeting  any  one.  But  if  you  will 
have  him  here  once  or  twice,  and  people  know  it,  it  will  make 
things  all  right." 

"Will  he  come?" 

"Yes."  . 

"  You  know  I  always  do  what  you  want." 

"  I  never  want  you  to  do  dull  things." 

"  That's  true.  The  dogs  don't  come  into  play  against  the 
people  you  bring  here." 

It  was  a  legend  in  Constantinople  in  Embassy  circles  that 
Lady  Ingleton  always  "  set  the  dogs  "  at  bores.  Even  at  offi- 
cial dinners,  when  she  had  as  much  as  she  could  stand  of  the 
heavy  bigwigs  whom  she  was  obliged  to  invite,  she  surrepti- 
tiously touched  a  bell.  This  was  a  signal  to  the  footman  to 
bring  in  the  dogs,  who  were  trained  to  yap  at  and  to  investi- 
gate closely  visitors.  The  yapping  and  the  investigations  cre- 
ated a  feeling  of  general  restlessness  and  an  almost  inevitable 
movement,  which  invariably  led  to  the  speedy  departure  of  the 
unwelcome  guests;  who  went,  as  Lady  Ingleton  said,  "not 
knowing  why."  Enough  that  they  went!  The  dogs  were  re- 
warded with  lumps  of  sugar  as  are  the  canine  performers  in  a 
circus.  Sir  Carey  complained  that  it  was  bad  diplomacy,  but 
he  was  devoted  to  his  wife,  and  even  secretly  loved  her  charac- 
teristic selfishness. 

"  Let  Dion  Leith  come  and  I'll  cast  my  mantle  over  him  — 
for  your  sake,  Cynthia.  You  are  a  remarkable  woman." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 


397 


"Why?" 

But  Lady  Ingleton  did  not  say  why.  There  were  immense 
reticences  between  her  and  Cynthia  Clarke. 

Dion  left  Hughes's  Hotel  and  went  to  Buyukderer. 

He  had  not  consciously  known  why  he  did  this.  Until  he 
met  Mrs.  Clarke  near  the  British  Embassy  he  had  scarcely  been 
aware  how  sordid  and  ugly  and  common  under  its  small  osten- 
tations Hughes's  Hotel  was.  She  made  him  see  the  dreariness 
of  his  surroundings,  although  she  had  never  seen  them;  she  made 
him  again  aware  of  things.  That  she  was  able  to  affect  him 
strongly,  although  he  did  not  care  for  her,  he  knew  by  the 
sudden  approach  to  the  brink  of  a  complete  emotional  break- 
down which  she  had  brought  about  in  him  at  their  first  meet- 
ing. He  remembered  the  hand  he  had  taken  and  had  put 
against  his  forehead.  There  had  been  no  cool  solace  in  it  for 
the  fever  within  him.  Why,  then,  did  he  go  to  Buyukderer? 
Certainly  he  did  not  go  in  hope.  He  was  dwelling  in  a  region 
far  beyond  any  where  hope  can  live. 

But  here  was  some  one  who  was  far  away  from  the  land  that 
had  seen  his  tragedy,  and  who  meant  something  in  connexion 
with  him,  who  intended  something  which  had  to  do  with  him. 
In  England  his  mother  had  been  powerless  to  help  him;  Beat- 
tie  had  been  powerless  to  help  him.  Canon  Wilton  had  tried 
to  use  his  almost  stern  power  of  manly  sincerity  on  behalf  of 
the  soul  of  Dion.  He  and  Dion  had  had  a  long  interview  after 
the  inquest  on  the  little  body  of  Robin  was  over,  and  he  had 
drawn  nearer  to  the  inmost  chamber  than  any  one  else  had, 
though  Bruce  Evelin,  even  in  his  almost  fierce  grief  for  Robin, 
had  been  wonderfully  kind  and  understanding.  But  even 
Canon  Wilton  had  utterly  failed  to  be  of  any  real  use.  Perhaps 
he  had  known  Rosamund  too  well. 

Till  now  Mrs.  Clarke  was  the  one  human  being  who  had  suc- 
ceeded in  making  a  definite  impression  on  Dion  since  Robin's 
death  and  Rosamund's  fearful  reception  of  the  news  of  it.  He 
felt  her  will,  and  perhaps  he  felt  something  else  in  her  with- 
out telling  himself  that  he  did  so:  her  knowledge  of  a  life  ab- 
solutely different  from  the  life  he  had  hitherto  known,  abso- 
lutely different,  too,  from  the  life  known  to,  and  lived  by,  those 
who  had  been  nearest  to  him  and  with  whom  he  had  been  most 
closely  intimate.  The  old  life  with  all  its  associations  had 
cast  him  out.  That  was  his  feeling.  Possibly,  without  be- 
ing aware  of  it,  and  driven  by  the  necessity  that  is  within  man 
to  lay  hold  of  something,  to  seek  after  refuge  in  the  blackest 


398  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

moments  of  existence,  he  was  feebly  and  instinctively  feeling 
after  an  unknown  life  which  was  represented  to  his  imagina- 
tion by  the  pale  beauty  of  Mrs.  Clarke.  She  had  described 
his  situation  as  one  of  suspension  between  the  heaven  and  the 
earth.  His  heaven  had  certainly  rejected  him.  Possibly, 
without  knowing  it,  and  without  any  hope  of  future  happiness 
or  even  of  future  peace,  he  faintly  descried  her  earth;  possibly, 
in  going  to  Buyukderer,  he  was  making  an  unconscious  effort 
to  gain  it. 

He  wondered  about  this  afterwards,  but  not  at  all  in  the 
moment  of  his  going.  Things  were  not  clear  to  him  then.  He 
was  still  in  the  vague,  but  he  was  not  to  walk  in  vagueness  for- 
ever. Fate  which,  by  its  malign  action,  had  caused  him  to  in- 
flict a  frightful  injury  upon  the  good  woman  he  loved  still  held 
in  reserve  for  him  new  and  tremendous  experiences.  He 
thought  that  in  Welsley  he  had  reached  the  ultimate  depths 
which  a  man  can  sound.  It  was  not  so. 

Dion  came  to  Buyukderer  on  a  breezy  blue  day,  a  day  which 
seemed  full  of  hope  and  elation,  which  was  radiant  with  sun- 
light and  dancing  waters,  and  buoyant  with  ardent  life.  Gone 
were  those  delicate  dreamy  influences  which  sometimes  float 
over  the  Bosporus  even  in  the  noontides  of  summer,  when  the 
winds  are  still,  and  the  long  shores  of  Asia  seem  to  lie  wrapped 
in  a  soft  siesta,  holding  their  secrets  of  the  Orient  closely  hid- 
den from  the  eyes  of  Europe.  Europe  gazes  at  Asia,  but  Asia 
is  gravely  indifferent  to  Europe;  she  listens  only  to  the  voices 
which  come  to  her  from  her  o\yn  depths,  and,  like  an  Almeh  re- 
clining, is  stirred  only  by  music  unknown  to  the  West. 

As  the  steamer  on  which  he  traveled  voyaged  towards  the 
Black  Sea,  Dion  paced  up  and  down  the  deck  and  looked  al- 
ways at  the  shores  of  Asia.  That  line  of  hills  represented  to 
him  the  unknown.  If  he  could  only  lose  himself  in  Asia  and 
forget!  But  there  was  nothing  passionate  in  his  longing.  It 
was  only  a  gray  desire  born  in  a  broken  mind  and  a  broken  na- 
ture. 

Once  during  the  voyage  he  thought  of  Robin.  Did  Robin 
know  where  he  was,  whither  he  was  going?  Since  Rosamund 
had  utterly  rejected  him,  strangely  his  dead  boy  and  he  had 
at  moments  seemed  to  Dion  to  be  near  to  each  other  encom- 
passed by  the  same  thick  darkness.  Even  once  he  had  seemed 
to  see  Robin  groping,  like  one  lost  and  vainly  seeking  after 
light.  His  vagueness  was  broken  upon  sometimes  by  fantas- 
tic visions.  But  to-day  he  had  no  consciousness  at  all  of  Robin. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  399 

The  veil  of  death  which  hung  between  him  and  the  child  he 
had  slain  seemed  to  be  of  stone,  absolutely  impenetrable.  And 
all  his  visions  had  left  him. 

Palaces  and  villas  came  into  sight  and  vanished;  Yildiz 
upon  its  hill  scattered  among  the  trees  of  its  immense  park; 
Dolmabaghcheh  stretched  out  along  the  water's  edges,  with  its 
rose-beds  before  it;  and  its  gravely  staring  sentinels;  Beylerbey 
Serai  on  the  Asian  shore,  with  its  marble  quay  and  its  terraced 
gardens,  not  far  from  Kandili  and  the  sweet  waters  of  Asia. 
Presently  the  Giant's  Mountain  appeared  staring  across  the 
water  at  Buyukderer.  The  prow  of  the  steamer  was  headed  for 
the  European  shore.  Dion  saw  the  bay  opening  to  receive  them 
under  its  wooded  hills  which  are  pierced  by  the  great  valley. 
It  stretched  its  arms  as  if  in  welcome,  and  very  calm  was  the 
water  between  them.  Here  the  wind  failed.  Along  the  shore 
were  villas,  and  gardens  rising  in  terraces,  where  roses,  lemon 
trees,  laurels  grew  in  almost  rank  abundance.  Across  the 
water  came  the  soft  sound  of  music,  a  song  of  Greece  lifted 
above  the  thrumming  of  guitars.  And  something  in  the  aspect 
of  this  Turkish  haven,  sheltered  from  the  winds  of  that  Black 
Sea  which  had  come  into  sight  off  Kirech  Burnu,  something 
in  the  song  which  floated  over  the  water,  struck  deep  into 
Dion's  heart.  Abruptly  he  was  released  from  his  frozen  de- 
tachment; tears  sprang  into  his  eyes,  memories  surged  up  in 
his  mind  —  memories  of  a  land  not  very  far  from  this  land; 
of  the  maidens  of  the  Porch;  of  the  hill  of  Drouva  kept  by 
the  stars  and  the  sleeping  winds ;  of  Zante  dreaming  of  the  sun- 
set; of  Hermes  keeping  watch  over  the  child  in  the  green  re- 
cesses of  Elis. 

"  Why  do  I  come  here  ?  What  have  I  to  do  here,  or  in  any 
place  dedicated  to  beauty  and  to  peace?  " 

His  brown  face  twitched,  and  the  wrinkles  which  sprayed 
out  from  his  eyelids  over  his  thin  cheeks  worked  till  the 
network  of  them  seemed  to  hold  an  independent  and  furious 
life. 

"  If  I  were  a  happy  traveler  as  I  once  was!  " 

The  thought  pierced  him,  and  was  followed  immediately  by 
the  remembrance  of  some  words  spoken  by  Mrs.  Clarke : 

"  My  friend,  it  will  have  to  come." 

That  which  had  to  come,  would  it  come  here,  in  this  shel- 
tered place,  where  the  song  died  away  like  a  thing  enticed  by 
the  long  valley  to  be  kept  by  the  amorous  trees  ?  Mrs.  Clarke's 
voice  had  sounded  full  of  inflexible  knowledge  when  she  had 


400  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

spoken  those  words,  and  she  had  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that 
were  full  of  knowledge.  It  was  as  if  those  eyes  had  seen  the 
weeping  of  many  men. 

The  steamer  drew  near  to  the  shore.  The  bright  bustle  of 
the  quay  was  apparent.  Dion  made  his  effort  and  conquered 
himself.  But  he  felt  almost  afraid  of  Buyukderer.  In  the 
ugly  roar  of  the  Grande  Rue  he  had  surely  been  safer  than  he 
would  be  here  in  this  place  which  seemed  planned  for  intimate 
happiness. 

The  steamer  came  alongside  the  pier. 

When  Dion  stepped  on  to  the  quay  a  tall  young  Englishman 
with  broad  shoulders,  rather  a  baby  face,  and  large  intelligent 
blue  eyes  immediately  walked  up  to  him. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Dion  Leith?  " 

Dion,  startled,  was  about  to  say  "  No  "  with  determined  hos- 
tility when  he  remembered  Mrs.  Clarke.  He  had  come  here; 
he  was,  he  supposed,  going  to  stay  here  for  some  days  at  least; 
of  course  he  must  face  things. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  gruffly. 

In  an  easy,  agreeable  manner  the  stranger  explained  that 
he  was  Cyril  Vane,  second  secretary  of  the  British  Embassy, 
and  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Clarke's,  and  that  he  had  come  down  at 
her  request  to  meet  Dion,  and  to  tell  him  that  there  was  a  charm- 
ing room  reserved  for  him  at  the  Belgrad  Hotel. 

"  I'll  walk  up  with  you  if  you  like,"  he  added,  in  a  casual 
voice.  "  It's  no  distance.  That  your  luggage  ?  " 

He  put  it  in  the  charge  of  a  porter  from  the  hotel. 

"  I'm  over  at  Therapia  just  now.  The  Ambassador  hopes  to 
see  you.  He's  a  delightful  fellow." 

He  talked  pleasantly,  and  looked  remarkably  unobservant  till 
they  reached  the  hotel,  where  he  parted  from  Dion. 

"  I  dare  say  I  shall  see  you  soon.  Very  glad  to  do  anything 
I  can  for  you.  Mrs.  Clarke  lives  at  the  Villa  Hafiz.  Any  one 
will  tell  you  where  it  is." 

He  walked  coolly  away  in  the  sun,  looking  like  an  immense 
fair  baby  in  his  thin,  light-colored  clothes. 

"  Does  he  know?  "  thought  Dion,  looking  after  him. 

Then  he  went  up  into  his  bedroom  which  looked  out  upon 
the  sea.  When  the  luggage  had  been  brought  in  and  the  door 
was  shut,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  stared  at  the 
polished  uncarpeted  floor. 

"  Why  have  I  come  here  ?  What  have  I  to  do  here  ?  "  he 
thought. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  401 

He  missed  the  uproar  of  Pera.  It  had  exercised  a  species  of 
pressure  upon  his  soul,  a  deadening  influence. 

Ever  since  Robin's  death  he  had  lived  in  towns,  and  had 
walked  about  streets.  He  had  been  for  a  time  in  Paris,  then  in 
Marseilles,  where  he  had  stayed  for  more  than  two  months 
haunted  by  an  idea  of  crossing  over  to  Africa  and  losing  him- 
self in  the  vastness  of  the  lands  of  the  sun.  But  something  had 
held  him  back,  perhaps  a  dread  of  the  immense  loneliness  which 
would  surely  beset  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea;  and  he 
had  gone  to  Geneva,  then  to  Zurich,  to  Milan,  Genoa,  Naples, 
Berlin  and  Budapest.  From  Budapest  he  had  come  to  Con- 
stantinople. He  had  known  the  loneliness  of  cities,  but  an  in- 
stinct had  led  him  to  avoid  the  loneliness  of  the  silent  and 
solitary  places.  There  had  been  an  atmosphere  of  peace  in 
quiet  Welsley.  He  was  afraid  of  such  an  atmosphere  and  had 
sought  always  its  opposite. 

"  Why  have  I  come  here?  "  he  thought  again. 

In  this  small  place  he  felt  exposed,  almost  as  if  he  were  naked 
and  could  be  seen  by  strangers.  In  Pera  at  least  he  was  cov- 
ered. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  away  from  here,"  he  thought. 

He  got  up  from  the  bed  and  began  to  unpack.  As  he  did 
this,  the  uselessness  of  what  he  was  doing,  the  arid  futility  of 
every  bit  of  the  web  of  small  details  which,  in  their  sum,  were 
his  life,  flowed  upon  his  soul  like  stagnant  water  forced  into 
movement  by  some  horrible  machinery.  He  was  like  some- 
thing agitating  in  a  vast  void,  something  whose  incessant  move- 
ments produced  no  effect,  had  no  sort  of  relation  to  anything. 
In  his  loneliness  of  the  cities  he  had  begun  to  lose  that  self-re- 
spect which  belongs  to  all  happy  Englishmen  of  his  type.  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  immediately  noticed  that  certain  details  in  his  dress 
showed  a  beginning  of  neglect.  Since  he  had  met  her  he  had 
rectified  them,  almost  unconsciously.  But  now  suddenly  the 
burden  of  detail  seemed  unbearable. 

It  was  only  by  an  almost  fierce  exercise  of  the  will  that  he 
forced  himself  to  finish  unpacking,  and  to  lay  his  things  out 
neatly  in  drawers  and  on  the  dressing-table.  Then  he  took  off 
his  boots  and  his  jacket,  stretched  himself  out  on  the  bed  with 
his  arms  behind  him  and  his  hands  grasping  the  bedstead,  and 
shut  his  eyes. 

There  was  something  shameful  in  his  flaccid  idleness,  in 
the  aimlessness  of  his  whole  life  now,  devoid  of  all  work,  un- 
directed towards  any  effort.  But  that  was  not  his  fault.  He 


402  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

had  worked  with  energy  in  business,  with  equal  energy  in  play, 
worked  for  self's  sake,  for  love's  sake,  and  for  country's  sake. 
And  for  all  he  had  done,  for  his  effort  of  purity  as  a  boy  and 
a  youth,  for  his  effort  of  love  as  a  husband  and  a  father,  for 
his  effort  of  valor  as  a  soldier,  he  had  been  rewarded  with 
the  most  horrible  punishment  which  can  fall  upon  a  man. 
Effort,  therefore,  on  his  part  was  useless;  it  was  worse  than 
useless,  it  was  grotesque.  Let  others  make  their  efforts,  his 
were  done. 

He  wished  that  he  could  sleep. 

The  dreadful  inertia  of  Dion  did  not  seem  to  be  dreadful  to 
Mrs.  Clarke.  Perhaps  she  was  more  intelligent  than  most 
women,  and  generated  within  herself  so  much  energy  of  some 
kind  that  she  was  not  driven  to  seek  for  it  in  others;  or  per- 
haps she  was  more  sympathetic,  more  imaginative,  than  most 
women,  and  pardoned  because  she  understood.  At  any  rate, 
she  accepted  Dion  as  he  was,  and  neither  criticized  him,  at- 
tempted to  bully  him,  nor  seemed  to  wish  to  change  him. 

She  had  indeed  insisted  that  he  must  face  his  fate  and 
had  ruthlessly  given  him  back  his  name;  she  had  also  delib- 
erately set  about  to  entangle  him  in  the  silken  cords  of  a  social 
relation.  But  he  knew  within  a  couple  of  days  of  his  arrival 
at  Buyukderer  that  he  need  not  fear  her.  No  woman  perhaps 
ever  lived  who  worried  a  man  less  in  friendship,  or  who  gave, 
without  any  insistence  upon  it,  a  stronger  impression  of  loy- 
alty, of  tenacity  in  affection  to  those  for  whom  she  cared.  Al- 
though often  almost  delicately  blunt  in  words,  in  action  she  was 
full  of  tact.  She  was  one  of  those  rare  women  who  absolutely 
understand  men,  and  who  know  how  to  convey  to  men  instantly 
the  fact  of  their  understanding.  Such  women  are  always  at- 
tractive to  men.  Even  if  they  are  plain,  and  not  otherwise  spe- 
cially clever,  they  possess  for  men  a  lure. 

Mrs.  Clarke  had  told  Dion  in  Constantinople  that  she  meant 
him  to  come  to  Buyukderer.  This  was  an  almost  insolent  as- 
sertion of  will-power.  But  when  he  was  there  she  let  him 
alone.  On  the  day  of  his  arrival  there  came  no  message  from 
the  Villa  Hafiz  to  his  hotel.  He  had,  perhaps,  expected  one; 
he  knew  that  he  was  relieved  not  to  receive  it.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  he  went  for  a  solitary  walk  up  the  valley,  avoiding 
the  many  people  who  poured  forth  from  the  villas  and  hotels 
to  take  their  air,  as  the  sun  sank  low  behind  Therapia,  and  the 
light  upon  the  water  lost  in  glory  and  gained  in  magic.  Gay 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  403 

parties  embarked  in  caiques.  Some  people  drove  in  small  vic- 
torias drawn  by  spirited,  quick-trotting  horses;  others  rode; 
others  strolled  up  and  down  slowly  by  the  edge  of  the  sea.  A 
gay  brightness  of  sociable  life  made  Buyukderer  intimately 
merry  as  evening  drew  on.  Instinctively  Dion  left  the  laughter 
and  the  voices  behind  him. 

His  wandering  led  him  to  the  valley  of  roses,  where  he  sat 
down  by  the  stream,  and  for  the  first  time  tasted  something  of 
the  simplicity  and  charm  of  Turkish  country  life.  It  did  not 
charm  him,  but  in  a  dim  way  he  felt  it,  was  faintly  aware  of 
a  soothing  influence  which  touched  him  like  a  cool  hand.  For 
a  long  time  he  stayed  there,  and  he  thought,  "  If  I  remain  at 
Buyukderer  I  shall  often  visit  this  place  beside  the  stream." 
Once  he  was  disturbed  by  the  noise  of  a  cantering  horse  in 
the  lane  close  by,  but  otherwise  he  was  fortunate  that  day;  few 
people  came  to  his  retreat,  and  none  of  them  were  foreigners. 
Two  or  three  Turks  strolled  by,  holding  their  beads;  and  once 
some  veiled  women  came,  escorted  by  a  eunuch,  threw  some 
petals  of  flowers  upon  the  surface  of  the  tinkling  water,  and 
walked  on  up  the  narrow  valley,  chattering  in  childish  voices, 
and  laughing  with  a  twitter  that  was  like  the  twitter  of  birds. 

In  the  soft  darkness  he  walked  slowly  back  to  his  hotel.  And 
that  night  he  slept  better  than  he  had  ever  slept  in  Pera. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  still  no  message  from  the 
Villa  Hafiz,  and  he  did  not  see  Mrs.  Clarke.  He  took  a  row 
boat,  with  a  big  Albanian  boatman  for  company,  and  rowed 
out  on  the  Bosporus  till  they  came  in  sight  of  the  Black  Sea. 
The  wind  got  up;  Dion  stripped  to  his  shirt  and  trousers,  rolled 
his  shirt  sleeves  up  to  the  shoulders,  and  had  a  long  pull  at  the 
oars.  He  rowed  till  the  perspiration  ran  down  his  lean  body. 
The  boatman  admired  his  muscles  and  his  strength. 

"  Inglese?  "  he  asked. 

Dion  nodded. 

"  Les  Inglesi  tres  forts,  molto  forte !  "  he  observed,  mixing 
French  with  Italian  to  show  his  linguistic  accomplishments, 
"  Moi  tres  fort  aussi." 

Dion  talked  to  the  man.  When  he  left  the  boat  at  the  quay 
he  said  he  would  take  it  again  on  the  morrow.  The  intention 
to  go  away  from  Buyukderer,  to  drown  himself  again  in  the  up- 
roar of  Pera,  was  already  fading  out  of  his  mind.  Mrs. 
Clarke's  silence  had,  perhaps,  reassured  him.  The  Villa  Hafiz 
did  not  summon  him.  He  could  seek  it  if  he  would.  Evidently 
it  was  not  going  to  seek  him. 


404  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Again  he  felt  grateful  to  Mrs.  Clarke.  Her  silence,  her  neg- 
lect of  him,  increased  his  faith  in  her  friendship  for  him. 

His  second  day  in  Buyukderer  dawned;  in  the  late  after- 
noon of  it,  now  sure  of  his  freedom,  he  went  to  the  Villa  Hafiz. 

He  did  not  know  that  Mrs.  Clarke  was  rich.  Indeed  he 
had  heard  in  London  that  she  only  had  a  small  income,  but 
that  she  "  did  wonders "  with  it.  In  London  he  had  seen 
her  at  Claridge's  and  at  the  marvelous  flat  in  Knightsbridge. 
Now,  at  Buyukderer,  he  found  her  in  a  small,  but  beautifully 
arranged  and  furnished,  villa  with  a  lovely  climbing  garden 
behind  it.  Evidently  she  could  not  live  in  ugly  surroundings 
or  among  cheap  and  unbeautiful  things.  He  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  rugs  and  carpets  on  the  polished  floors  of  the  villa 
were  exquisite,  that  the  furniture  was  not  merely  graceful  and 
in  place  but  really  choice  and  valuable,  and  that  the  few  orna- 
ments and  pieces  of  china  scattered  about,  with  the  most  deft 
decision  as  to  the  exactly  right  place  for  each  mirror,  bowl, 
vase  and  incense  holder,  were  rarely  fine.  Yet  in  the  airy 
rooms  there  was  no  dreary  look  of  the  museum.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  had  an  intimate,  almost  a  homely  air,  in  spite  of 
their  beauty.  Books  and  magazines  were  allowed  their  place, 
and  on  a  grand  piano,  almost  in  the  middle  of  the  largest  room, 
which  opened  by  long  windows  into  an  adroitly  tangled  rose 
garden  where  a  small  fountain  purred  amongst  blue  lilies,  there 
was  a  quantity  of  music.  The  whole  house  was  strongly  scented 
with  flowers.  Dion  was  greeted  at  its  threshold  by  a  wave  of 
delicious  perfume. 

Mrs.  Clarke  received  him  in  her  most  casual,  most  impersonal 
manner,  and  made  no  allusion  to  the  fact  that  she  knew  he 
had  already  been  for  two  days  in  Buyukderer  without  coming 
near  her.  She  asked  him  if  his  room  at  the  hotel  was  all  right, 
and  when  he  thanked  her  for  bothering  about  him  said  that 
Cyril  Vane  had  seen  to  it. 

"  He's  a  kind,  useful  sort  of  boy,"  she  added,  "  and  often 
helps  me  with  little  things." 

That  day  she  said  nothing  about  the  Ambassador  and  Lady 
Ingleton,  and  showed  no  disposition  to  assume  any  proprietor- 
ship over  Dion.  She  took  him  over  the  house,  and  also  into 
the  garden. 

Upon  the  highest  terrace  of  the  latter,  far  above  the  house, 
between  two  magnificent  cypresses,  there  stood  a  pavilion.  It 
was  made  of  the  wood  of  the  plane  tree,  was  painted  dull 
green,  had  trees  growing  thickly  at  its  back,  and  was  partially 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  405 

concealed  by  a  luxuriant  creeper  with  deep  orange-colored 
flowers,  not  unlike  orange-colored  jasmine,  which  Mrs.  Clarke 
had  seen  first  in  Egypt  and  had  acclimatized  in  Turkey.  The 
center  of  the  front  of  this  pavilion  was  open  to  the  terrace, 
but  could  be  closed  by  sliding  doors  which,  when  pushed  back, 
fitted  into  the  hollow  walls  on  either  side.  The  interior  was 
furnished  with  bookcases,  divans  covered  with  cushions  and 
embroideries,  coffee  tables,  and  Eastern  rugs.  Antique  bronze 
lamps  hung  by  chains  from  the  painted  ceiling,  which  was  di- 
vided into  lozenges  alternately  dull  green  and  dull  gold.  The 
view  from  this  detached  library  was  very  beautiful.  Over  the 
roof  of  the  villa,  beyond  the  broad  white  road  and  the  quay, 
the  long  bay  stretched  out  into  the  Bosporus.  Across  its  tran- 
quil waters,  and  the  waters  beaten  up  into  waves  by  the  winds 
from  the  Black  Sea,  rose  the  shores  of  Asia,  Beikos,  Anadoli 
Kavak,  Anadoli  Fanar,  with  lines  of  hills  and  the  Giant's 
Mountain.  Immediately  below,  and  stretching  away  to  right 
and  left,  were  the  curving  shores  of  Europe,  with  the  villas 
and  palaces  of  Buyukderer  held  between  the  blue  sea  and  the 
tree-covered  heights  of  Kabatash;  the  park  of  the  Russian  Pal- 
ace, the  summer  home  of  Russia's  representative  at  the  Sublime 
Porte,  gardens  of  many  rich  merchants  of  Constantinople  and 
of  Turkish,  Greek  and  Armenian  magnates,  and  the  fertile  and 
well-watered  country  extending  to  Therapia,  Stania  and  Bebek 
on  the  one  hand,  and  to  Rumili  Kavak,  with  the  great  Belgrad 
forest  behind  it,  and  to  Rumili  Fanar,  where  the  Bosporus  flows 
into  the  Black  Sea,  on  the  other. 

"  Come  up  here  whenever  you  like,"  Mrs.  Clarke  said  to 
Dion.  "  You  can  ring  at  the  side  gate  of  the  garden,  and  come 
up  without  entering  the  house  or  letting  me  know  you  are  here. 
I  have  my  own  sitting-room  on  the  first  floor  of  the  villa  next 
to  my  bedroom,  the  little  blue-and-green  room  I  showed  you  just 
now.  The  books  I'm  reading  at  present  are  there.  No  one  will 
bother  you,  and  you  won't  bother  any  one." 

He  thanked  her,  not  very  warmly,  perhaps,  but  with  a  genu- 
ine attempt  at  real  gratitude,  and  said  he  would  come.  They 
walked  up  and  down  the  terrace  for  a  little  while,  in  silence  for 
the  most  part.  Before  they  went  down  he  mentioned  that  he 
had  been  out  rowing. 

"  I  ride  for  exercise,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  You  can  easily 
hire  a  good  horse  here,  but  I  have  one  of  my  own,  Selim. 
Nearly  every  afternoon  I  ride." 

"  Were  you  riding  the  day  before  yesterday?  "  Dion  asked. 


406  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes,  in  the  Kesstane  Dereh,  or  Valley  of  Roses,  as  many 
people  call  it." 

"  Were  you  alone?  " 

"  Yes." 

Dion  had  thought  of  the  cantering  horse  which  he  had 
heard  in  the  lane  as  he  sat  beside  the  stream.  He  felt  sure  it 
was  Selim  he  had  heard.  Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  ask  the  reason 
for  his  questions.  She  seemed  to  him  a  totally  incurious 
woman.  Presently  they  descended  to  the  house,  and  he  wished 
her  good-by.  She  did  not  ask  him  to  stay  any  longer,  did  not 
propose  any  expedition,  or  any  day  or  hour  for  another  meet- 
ing. She  just  let  him  go  with  a  grave,  and  almost  abstracted 
good-by. 

When  he  was  alone  he  realized  something;  she  had  as- 
sumed that  he  was  going  to  make  a  long  stay  in  Buyukderer. 
Once,  in  speaking  of  the  foliage,  she  had  said,  "  You  will  no- 
tice in  September "  Why  was  she  so  certain  he  would 

stay  on?  There  was  nothing  to  prevent  him  from  going  away 
by  the  steamer  on  the  morrow.  She  did  nothing  to  curb  his 
freedom ;  she  seemed  almost  indifferent  to  the  fact  of  his  presence 
there;  yet  she  had  told  him  he  would  come,  and  was  evidently 
certain  that  he  would  stay. 

He  wondered  a  little,  but  only  a  little,  about  her  will.  Then 
his  mind  returned  to  an  old  haunt  in  which  continually  it  wan- 
dered, obsessed  by  a  horror  that  seemed  already  ancient,  the 
walled  garden  at  Welsley  in  which  he  had  searched  in  the  dark 
for  a  fleeing  woman.  Perpetually  he  heard  the  movement  of 
that  woman's  dress  as  she  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  and 
the  sound  of  a  door,  the  door  of  his  own  home,  being  locked 
against  him  to  give  her  time  to  escape  from  him.  That  sound 
had  cut  his  life  in  two.  He  saw,  as  he  had  seen  many  times 
in  the  past,  the  falling  downwards  of  edges  that  bled,  the  edges 
of  his  severed  life. 

And  he  forgot  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Hafiz,  the  pavilion 
which  stood  on  the  hill  looking  over  the  sea  to  Asia,  the  grave 
woman  who  had  told  him,  indifferently,  that  he  could  go  to 
it  when  he  would. 

Nevertheless  on  the  following  day  he  found  himself  at  the 
garden  gate;  he  rang  the  bell;  he  was  admitted  by  Osman,  the 
placidly  smiling  gardener,  and  he  ascended  to  the  pavilion. 
No  one  was  there.  He  stayed  for  three  hours,  and  nobody 
came  to  interrupt  him.  Down  below  the  wooden  villa  held 
closely  the  secret  of  its  life.  Once,  as  he  gazed  down  on  it,  he 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  407 

wondered  for  a  moment  about  Mrs.  Clarke,  how  she  passed  her 
hours  without  a  companion,  which  she  was  doing  just  then. 
The  siren  of  a  steamer  sounded  in  the  bay.  He  went  into  the 
pavilion.  On  one  of  the  coffee-tables  he  found  lying  a  small 
thin  book  bound  in  white  vellum.  He  took  it  up  and  read  the 
name  in  gold  letters:  "The  Kasidah  of  Haji  Abdu  El- 
Yezdi."  It  was  the  book  he  had  found  Beattie  reading  on 
the  night  when  Robin  was  born,  on  the  night  when  Bruce 
Evelin  and  Guy  had  discussed  Mrs.  Clarke's  divorce  case  and 
Mrs.  Clarke.  He  shuddered  in  the  warmth  of  the  pavilion. 
Then  resolutely  he  picked  the  book  up.  At  the  beginning, 
after  some  blank  pages,  there  was  a  portrait  of  Sir  Richard 
Burton.  Dion  looked  at  the  strong,  tragic  face,  with  its  burning 
expression,  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  stretched  himself  on 
one  of  the  divans  and  began  to  read  the  book. 

Down  below,  in  the  villa,  Mrs.  Clarke  was  sitting  in  the 
green-and-blue  room  on  the  first  floor  with  Lady  Ingleton, 
and  they  were  talking  about  Dion. 

"  He's  here  now,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  to  her  friend. 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  garden.  I  haven't  seen  him,  but  Osman  tells  me 
he  has  gone  up  to  the  pavilion." 

"  We  can  stroll  up  there  later  on,  and  then  you  can  intro- 
duce him  if  you  want  to." 

"  No." 

Lady  Ingleton  did  not  look  surprised  on  receiving  this  brusk 
negative. 

"Shall  I  get  Carey  to  see  him  first?"  she  asked,  in  her 
lazy  voice.  "  Cyril  Vane  iias  prepared  the  way  before  him, 
and  Carey  is  all  sympathy  and  readiness  to  do  what  he  can. 
The  Greek  tragedy  of  the  situation  appeals  to  him  tremend- 
ously, and  of  course  he  has  a  hundredfold  more  tact  than  I 
have." 

"  Mr.  Leith  must  go  to  the  Embassy.  But  what  he  has 
been  through  has  developed  in  him  a  sort  of  wildness  that 
is  almost  like  that  of  an  animal.  If  he  saw  an  outstretched 
hand  he  would  probably  bolt." 

"  And  yet  he's  sitting  in  your  pavilion." 

"  Because  he  knows  he  won't  see  any  outstretched  hand 
there.  He  was  here  for  two  days  without  coming  near  me,  and 
even  then  he  only  came  because  I  had  taken  no  notice  of 
him." 

"  I  know.     You  spread  the  food  outside,  go  indoors  and 


408  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

close  the  shutters,  and  then,  when  no  one  is  looking,  it  creeps 
up,  takes  the  food,  and  vanishes." 

"  A  very  great  grief  eats  away  the  conventions,  and  beneath 
the  conventions  there  is  always  something  strongly  animal." 

For  a  moment  Lady  Ingleton  looked  at  Mrs.  Clarke  and 
was  silent.  Then  she  said,  very  quietly  and  simply: 

"  Does  he  realize  yet  how  cruel  you  are?  " 

"  He  isn't  thinking  about  me." 

"  But  he  will." 

Mrs.  Clarke  stared  at  the  wall  for  a  minute.  Then  she 
said: 

"  Ask  the  Ambassador  if  he  will  ride  with  me  to-morrow 
afternoon,  will  you,  unless  he's  engaged?" 

"At  what  time?" 

"  Half-past  four.     Perhaps  he'll  dine  afterwards." 

"  Very  well.     And  now  I'm  going  up  to  the  pavilion." 

But  she  did  not  go,  although  she  was  genuinely  curious 
about  the  man  who  had  killed  his  son  and  had  been  cast  out 
by  the  woman  he  loved.  Secretly  Lady  Ingleton  was  much 
more  softly  romantic  than  Mrs.  Clarke  was.  She  was  hard  on 
bores,  and  floated  in  an  atmosphere  of  delicate  selfishness, 
but  she  could  be  very  kind  if  her  imagination  was  roused,  and 
though  almost  strangely  devoid  of  prejudices  she  had  instincts 
that  were  not  unsound. 

That  evening  she  gave  Mrs.  Clarke's  message  to  her 
husband. 

"To-morrow  —  to-morrow?"  he  said,  in  his  light  tenor 
voice,  inquiringly.  "  Yes,  I  can  go.  As  it  happens,  I'm  break- 
fasting with  Borinsky  at  the  Russian  Palace,  so  I  shall  be  on 
the  spot.  John  can  meet  me  with  Freddie." 

Freddie  was  the  Ambassador's  favorite  horse. 

"  But  can  Borinksy  put  up  with  you  till  half-past  four?  " 

"  Cynthia  Clarke  won't  mind  if  I  turn  up  before  my  time." 

"  No.  She's  devoted  to  you,  and  you  know  it,  and  love 
it." 

Sir  Carey  smiled.  He  and  his  wife  were  happy  people,  and 
he  never  wished  to  stray  from  his  path  of  happiness,  not  even 
with  Mrs.  Clarke.  But  he  had  been  a  beautiful  youth,  whom 
many  women  had  loved,  and  was  a  remarkably  handsome  man, 
although  his  red  hair  was  turning  gray.  Honestly  he  liked  to 
be  admired  by  women,  and  to  feel  that  his  fascination  for 
them  was  still  intact.  And  he  did  not  actively  object  to  the 
fact  of  his  wife's  being  aware  of  it.  For  he  loved  her  very 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  409 

much,  and  he  knew  that  a  woman  does  not  love  a  man  less 
because  other  women  feel  his  power. 

He  appreciated  Mrs.  Clarke,  and  thought  her  full  of  in- 
telligence, of  nuances,  and  tres  fine.  Her  husband  had  been 
his  right-hand  man  at  the  Embassy,  but  he  had  taken  Mrs. 
Clarke's  part  when  the  divorce  proceedings  were  initiated,  and 
had  stood  up  for  her  ever  since.  Like  Esme  Darlington  he 
believed  that  she  was  a  wild  mind  in  an  innocent  body. 

On  the  following  day  he  rode  with  her  towards  Rumili 
Kavak,  and  presently,  returning,  to  the  four  cross-roads  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Valley  of  Roses.  A  Turkish  youth  was  stand- 
ing there.  Mrs.  Clarke  spoke  to  him  in  Turkish  and  he  re- 
plied. She  turned  to  the  Ambassador. 

"  You  do  want  a  cup  of  coffee,  don't  you?  " 

"  If  you  tell  me  I  do." 

"  By  the  stream  just  beyond  the  lane.  And  I'll  ride  home. 
I've  ordered  all  the  things  you  like  best  for  dinner.  Ahmed 
Bey  and  Madame  Davroulos  will  make  a  four." 

"And  Delia  and  Cyril  Vane  a  two!  " 

"  You  must  try  to  control  your  very  natural  jealousy." 

"  I  will." 

He  dismounted  and  gave  the  reins  to  the  Turkish  youth. 

Sitting  very  erect  on  her  black  Arab  horse,  Mrs.  Clarke 
watched  him  disappear  down  the  lane  in  which  Dion  had 
heard  the  cantering  feet  of  a  horse  as  he  sat  alone  beside  the 
stream. 

Then  she  rode  back  to  Buyukderer. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHETHER  Mrs.  Clarke  had  put  "  The  Kasidah  "  in 
a  conspicuous  place  in  the  pavilion  with  a  definite 
object,  or  whether  she  had  been  reading  it  and  by 
chance  had  laid  it  down,  Dion  could  not  tell.     He  believed, 
however,  that  she  had  intended  that  this  book  should  be  read 
by  him  at  this  crisis  in  his  life.     She  had  frankly  acknowledged 
that  she  wished  to  rouse  him  out  of  his  inertia;  she  was  a 
very  mental  woman;  a  book  was  a  weapon  that  such  a  woman 
would  be  likely  to  employ. 


410  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

At  any  rate,  Dion  felt  her  influence  in  "  The  Kasidah." 

The  book  took  possession  of  him;  it  burnt  him  like  a  flame; 
even  it  made  him  for  a  short  time  forget.  That  was  incred- 
ible, yet  it  was  the  fact. 

It  was  an  antichristian  book.  A  woman's  love  of  God  had 
made  Dion  in  his  bitterness  antichristian.  It  was  an  enor- 
mously vital  book,  and  called  to  the  vitality  which  misery  had 
not  killed  within  him.  There  were  passages  in  it  which  seemed 
to  have  been  written  specially  for  him  —  passages  that  went 
into  him  like  a  sword  and  drew  blood  from  out  of  the  very 
depths  of  him. 

"  Better  the  worm  of  Izrail  than  Death  that  walks  in  form 
of  life" — that  was  for  him.  He  had  substituted  for  death, 
swift,  easy,  a  mere  nothing,  the  long,  slow,  terrific  something. 
Death  that  walks  in  form  of  life.  Deliberately  he  had  chosen 
that. 

"  On  thought  itself  feed  not  thy  thought ;  nor  turn 

From  Sun  and  Light  to  gaze 

At  darkling  cloisters  paved  with  tombs  where  rot 
The  bones  of  bygone  days " 

What  else  had  he  done  since  he  had  wandered  in  the 
wilderness  ? 

"  There  is  no  Good,  there  is  no  Bad,  these  be 

The  whims  of  mortal  will: 

What  works  me  weal  that  call  I  '  good,'  what  harms 
And  hurts  I  hold  as  '  ill.' " 

Those  words  drove  out  the  pale  Fantasy  he  had  fallen  down 
and  worshiped.  It  had  harmed  and  hurt  him.  Haji  Abdu 
El-Yezdi  bade  him  henceforth  hold  it  as  "  ill."  If  he  could 
only  do  that,  would  not  gates  open  before  him,  would  not,  per- 
haps, the  power  to  live  again  in  a  new  way  arise  within  him? 

"  Do  what  thy  Manhood  bids  thee  do,  from 

None  but  self  expect  applause; 
He  noblest  lives  and  noblest  dies  who  makes 
And  keeps  his  self-made  laws. 

All  other  Life  is  living  Death,  a  world  where 

None  but  Phantoms  dwell, 
A  breath,  a  wind,  a  sound,  a  voice,  a  tinkling 

Of  the  Camel  bell." 

He  had  lived  the  other  life,  for  he  had  lived  for  another; 
he  had  lived  to  earn  the  applause  of  affection  from  Rosamund; 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  411 

he  had  striven  always  to  fit  his  life  into  her  pattern;  now  he 
was  alone  with  the  result. 

"  Pluck  the  old  woman  from  thy  breast :  be 
Stout  in  woe,  be  stark  in  weal  — 

spurn 

Bribe  of  Heav'n  and  threat  of  Hell." 

He  had  chosen  the  death  that  walks  in  form  of  life;  now 
something  powerful,  stirred  from  sleep  by  the  influence  of  a 
dead  thinker  wedded,  perhaps,  with  the  influence  of  one  not 
dead,  rose  up  in  him  to  reject  that  death.  And  it  was  the 
same  thing  which  long  ago  had  enabled  him  to  be  pure  before 
his  marriage,  the  same  thing  which  had  enabled  him  to  put 
England  before  even  Rosamund,  the  same  thing  which  had 
held  him  up  in  many  difficult  days  in  South  Africa,  and  had 
kept  him  cheerful  and  bravely  gay  through  the  long  separation 
from  all  he  cared  for,  the  same  thing  which  had  begun  to 
dominate  Rosamund  during  those  few  short  days  at  Welsley, 
the  brief  period  of  reunion  in  happiness  which  had  preceded 
the  crash  into  the  abyss;  it  was  the  fiery  spark  of  Dion's 
strength  which  not  all  his  weakness  had  succeeded  in  ex- 
tinguishing, a  strength  which  had  made  for  good  in  the  past, 
a  strength  which  might  make  for  evil  in  the  future. 

Did  Mrs.  Clarke  know  of  that  strength,  and  was  she  subtly 
appealing  to  it? 

"  Pluck  the  old  woman  from  thy  breast." 

Again  and  again  Dion  repeated  those  words  to  himself,  and 
he  saw  himself,  an  ineffably  tragic,  because  a  weak  figure, 
feebly  drifting  with  his  black  misery  through  cities  which  knew 
him  not,  wandering  alone,  sitting  alone,  peering  at  the  lives  of 
others,  watching  their  vices  without  interest,  without  either 
approval  or  condemnation,  staring  with  dull  eyes  at  their  fetes 
and  their  funerals,  their  affections,  their  cruelties,  their  pas- 
sions, their  crimes.  He  saw  himself  in  a  garden  at  Pera 
staring  at  painted  women,  neither  desiring  them  nor  turning 
from  them  with  any  disgust.  He  saw  himself  —  as  an  old 
woman.  A  smoldering  defiance  within  him  sent  out  a  spurt 
of  scorching  flame. 

Sitting  alone  by  the  stream  in  the  Valley  of  Roses  Dion 
heard  the  sound  of  steps,  and  presently  saw  a  slight,  very 
refined-looking  man  in  riding-breeches,  with  a  hunting-crop 
in  his  hand,  coming  down  to  the  bank.  He  sat  down  on  a 


412  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

rough  wooden  bench  under  a  willow  tree,  lit  a  cigar  and  gazed 
into  the  water.  He  had  large,  imaginative  gray  eyes.  There 
was  something  military  and  something  poetic  in  his  manner 
and  bearing  and  in  his  whole  appearance.  Almost  directly 
from  a  little  rustic  cafe  close  by  a  Greek  lad  came,  carrying  a 
wooden  stool.  On  it  he  placed  a  steaming  brass  coffee  pot, 
a  cup  and  saucer,  sugar,  a  stick  of  burning  incense  in  a  tiny 
vase,  and  a  rose  with  a  long  stalk.  Then  he  went  swiftly  away, 
looking  very  intelligent.  The  stranger  —  obviously  an  Eng- 
lishman—  picked  up  the  rose,  held  it,  smelt  it,  laid  it  down 
and  began  to  sip  his  coffee.  Then  in  a  very  casual,  easy-going 
way,  like  a  man  who  was  naturally  sociable,  and  who  enjoyed 
having  a  word  with  any  one  whom  he  came  across,  he  began 
to  speak  to  Dion. 

\Yhen  that  day  died  Dion  stood  alone  looking  down  into 
the  stream.  He  looked  till  he  saw  in  it  the  face  of  night. 
Broken  stars  quivered  in  the  water;  among  them  for  a  moment 
he  perceived  the  eyes  of  a  child,  of  a  child  who  had  been  able 
to  love  him  as  a  woman  had  not  been  able  to  love  him,  and  to 
forgive  him  as  a  woman  could  not  forgive  him. 

When  Dion  walked  back  to  his  hotel  the  candlelight  glim- 
mered over  the  dining-table  at  the  Villa  Hafiz  where  Mrs. 
Clarke  sat  with  her  three  guests  —  the  Ambassador,  Madame 
Davroulos,  the  wife  of  a  Greek  millionaire  whose  home  was  at 
Smyrna,  and  Ahmed  Bey,  one  of  the  Sultan's  adjutants. 

Hadi  Bey  had  long  ago  passed  out  of  her  life. 

That  evening  the  Ambassador  got  up  to  go  rather  early. 
His  caique  was  lying  against  the  quay. 

"Come  out  by  the  garden  gate,  won't  you?"  said  Mrs. 
Clarke  to  him,  and  she  led  the  way  to  the  tangled  rose  garden, 
where  sometimes  she  sat  and  read  the  poems  of  Hafiz. 

Madame  Davroulos  was  smoking  a  large  cigar  in  a  corner 
of  the  drawing-room  and  talking  volubly  to  Ahmed  Bey,  who 
was  listening  as  only  a  Turk  can  listen,  with  a  smiling  and 
immense  serenity,  twisting  a  string  of  amber  beads  in  his 
padded  fingers. 

"  He  was  there?  "  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  in  her  quietest  and  most 
impersonal  manner. 

"Yes  —  he  was  there." 

The  Ambassador  paused  by  the  fountain,  and  stood  with 
one  foot  on  the  marble  edge  of  the  basin,  gazing  down  on  the 
blue  lilies  whose  color  looked  dull  and  almost  black  in  the 
night. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  413 

"  He  was  there.  I  talked  with  him  for  quite  half  an  hour. 
He  seemed  glad  to  talk;  he  talked  almost  fiercely." 

Mrs.  Clarke's  white  face  looked  faintly  surprised. 

"  Eventually  I  told  him  who  I  was,  and  he  told  his  name 
to  me,  watching  me  narrowly  to  see  how  I  should  take  it.  My 
air  of  complete  serenity  over  the  revelation  seemed  to  reassure 
him.  I  said  I  knew  he  was  a  friend  of  yours  and  that  my 
wife  and  I  would  be  very  glad  to  see  him  at  Therapia,  and 
at  the  Embassy  in  Pera  later  on.  He  said  he  would  come  to 
Therapia  to-morrow." 

This  time  Mrs.  Clarke  looked  almost  strongly  surprised. 

"What  did  you  talk  about?"  she  asked. 

"  Chiefly  about  a  book  he  seems  to  have  been  reading  re- 
cently, Richard  Burton's  '  Kasidah.'  You  know  it,  of  course?  " 

"  I  remember  Omar  Khayyam  much  better." 

"  He  spoke  strangely,  almost  terribly  about  it.  Perhaps 
you  know  how  converts  to  Roman  Catholicism  talk  in  the  early 
days  of  their  conversion,  as  if  they  alone  understood  the  true 
meaning  of  being  safe  in  sunlight,  cradled  and  cherished  in  the 
blaze,  as  it  were.  Well,  he  spoke  like  one  just  converted  to  a 
belief  in  the  all-sufficiency  of  this  life  if  it  is  thoroughly  lived; 
and,  I  confess,  he  gave  me  the  impression  of  being  cradled 
and  cherished  in  thick  darkness." 

Sir  Carey  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"  What  was  this  man,  Leith?  " 

"  Do  you  mean ?  " 

"  Before  his  married  life  came  to  an  end?  " 

"The  straight,  athletic,  orthodox  young  Englishman;  very 
sane  and  simple;  healthily  moral;  not  perhaps  particularly 
religious,  but  full  of  sentiment  and  trust  in  a  boyish  sort  of 
way.  I  remember  he  read  Christian  morals  into  Greek  art." 

Sir  Carey  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  One  could  sum  him  up  by  saying  that  he  absolutely  be- 
lieved in  and  exclusively  adored  a  strongly  religious,  beautiful, 
healthy-minded  and  healthy-bodied  Englishwoman,  who  has 
now,  I  believe,  entered  a  sisterhood,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
She  colored  his  whole  life.  He  saw  life  through  her  eyes, 
and  believed  through  her  faith.  At  least,  I  should  think  so." 

"  Then  he's  an  absolutely  different  man  from  what  he  was." 

"The  strongly  religious,  beautiful,  healthy-minded  and 
bodied  Englishwoman  has  condemned  as  a  crime  a  mere  terrible 
mistake.  She  has  taken  herself  away  from  her  husband  and 
given  herself  to  God.  She  cared  for  the  child." 


4 14  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Mrs.  Clarke  laid  a  curious  cold  emphasis  on  the  last 
sentence. 

"  Horrible!  "  said  Sir  Carey  slowly.  "  And  so  now  he  turns 
from  the  Protestant's  God  to  Destiny  playing  with  the  pawns 
upon  the  great  chessboard.  But  if  he's  a  man  of  sentiment, 
and  not  an  intellectual,  he'll  never  find  this  life  all-sufficient, 
however  he  lives  it.  The  darkness  will  never  be  enough  for 
him." 

"  It  has  to  be  enough  for  a  great  many  of  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Clarke. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  which  she  broke  by  saying,  in  a 
lighter  voice: 

"  As  he's  going  to  visit  you,  I  can  go  on  having  him  here. 
You'll  let  people  know,  won't  you?  " 

"That  he's  a  friend  of  ours?     Of  course." 

"  That  will  make  things  all  right." 

"  You  run  your  unconventionalities  always  on  the  public 
race-course,  in  sight  of  the  grand  stand  packed  with  the  con- 
ventionalities." 

"What  else  can  I  do?  Besides,  secret  things  are  always 
found  out." 

"  You  never  went  in  for  them." 

"  And  yet  my  own  husband  misunderstood  me." 

"Poor  Beadon!     He  was  an  excellent  councilor." 

"  And  an  excellent  husband." 

"  But  he  made  a  great  fool  of  himself." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  without  any  animus.  "  And  so 
Mr.  Leith  made  a  sad  impression  upon  you?  " 

"  A  few  men  can  be  tormented.  He  is  one  of  them.  He 
has  gone  down  into  the  dark  places.  Perhaps  the  Furies  are 
with  him  there,  the  attendants  of  the  Goddess  of  Death." 

He  glanced  at  his  companion.  She  was  standing  absolutely 
still,  gazing  down  into  the  water.  Her  white  face  looked 
beautiful,  but  strangely  haggard  and  implacable  in  the  night. 
And  for  a  moment  his  mind  dwelt  on  the  image  conjured  up  by 
his  last  words,  and  he  thought  of  her  as  the  Goddess  of  Death. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  must  go,  or  Delia  will  be  wondering. 
She  knows  your  power." 

"  And  knows  I  am  too  faithful  to  her  not  to  resist  yours." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  then  said  rather  abruptly: 

"  Are  you  feverish  to-night?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  almost  with  the  hint  of  a  sudden 
irritation.  "  I  am  never  feverish." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  415 

Sir  Carey  went  away  to  his  caique. 

When  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Clarke  stood  alone  by  the  fountain 
for  a  moment,  frowning,  and  with  her  thin  lips  closely  com- 
pressed, almost,  indeed,  pinched  together.  She  gazed  down  at 
her  hands.  They  were  lovely  hands,  small,  sensitive,  refined; 
they  looked  clever,  too,  not  like  tapering  fools.  She  knew  very 
well  how  lovely  they  were,  yet  now  she  looked  at  them  with  a 
certain  distaste.  Betraying  hands!  Abruptly  she  extended 
them  towards  the  fountain,  and  let  the  cool  silver  of  the  water 
spray  over  them.  And  as  she  watched  the  spray  she  thought 
of  the  wrinkles  about  Dion's  eyes. 

"Ah,  ma  chere,  qu'est-ce  que  vous  faites  la  toute  seule? 
Vous  prenez  un  bain  ?  " 

The  powerful  contralto  of  Madame  Davroulos  flowed  out 
from  the  drawing-room,  and  her  alluring  mustache  appeared 
at  the  lighted  French  windows. 

Mrs.  Clarke  dried  her  hands  with  a  minute  handkerchief, 
and,  without  troubling  about  an  explanation,  turned  away  from 
the  rose  garden.  But  when  her  two  guests  were  gone  she  told 
her  Greek  butler  to  bring  out  an  arm-chair  and  a  foot-stool, 
and  the  Russian  maid,  whom  Dion  had  seen,  to  bring  her  a 
silk  wrap.  Then  she  sent  them  both  to  bed,  lit  a  cigarette 
and  sat  down  by  the  fountain,  smoking  cigarette  after  cigarette 
quickly.  Not  till  the  freshness  of  dawn  was  in  the  air,  and 
a  curious  living  grayness  made  the  tangled  rose  bushes  look 
artificial  and  the  fountain  strangely  cold,  did  she  get  up  to  go 
to  bed. 

She  looked  very  tired;  but  she  always  looked  tired,  although 
she  scarcely  knew  what  physical  fatigue  was.  The  gray  of 
dawn  grew  about  her  and  emphasized  her  peculiar  pallor,  the 
shadows  beneath  her  large  eyes,  the  haunted  look  about  her 
cheeks  and  her  temples. 

As  she  went  into  the  house  she  pulled  cruelly  at  a  rose  bush. 
A  white  rose  came  away  from  its  stalk  in  her  hand.  She 
crushed  its  petals  and  flung  them  away  on  the  sill  of  the 
window. 

While  Mrs.  Clarke  was  sitting  by  the  fountain  in  the  garden 
of  the  Villa  Hafiz,  Dion  was  sleepless  in  his  bedroom  at  the 
Hotel  Belgrad.  He  was  considering  whether  he  should  end 
his  life  or  whether  he  should  change  the  way  of  his  life.  He 
was  not  conscious  of  struggle.  He  did  not  feel  excited.  But 
he  did  feel  determined.  The  strength  he  possessed  was  assert- 
ing itself.  It  had  slumbered  within  him;  it  had  not  died. 


416  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Either  he  would  die  now  or  he  would  genuinely  live,  would 
lay  a  grip  on  life  somehow. 

If  he  chose  to  die  how  would  Mrs.  Clarke  take  the  news  of 
his  death?  He  imagined  some  one  going  to  the  Villa  Hafiz 
from  the  Hotel  Belgrad  with  a  message:  "The  English 
gentleman  Mr.  Vane  took  the  room  for  has  just  killed  himself. 
What  is  to  be  done  with  the  body?  "  What  would  Mrs.  Clarke 
say?  What  would  she  look  like?  What  would  she  do?  He 
remembered  the  sign  of  the  cross  she  had  made  in  the  flat  in 
Knightsbridge.  With  that  sign  she  had  dismissed  the  soul 
of  Brayfield  into  the  eternities.  Would  she  dismiss  the  soul 
of  Dion  Leith  with  the  sign  of  the  cross? 

If  she  heard  of  his  death,  Rosamund  would  of  course  be 
unmoved,  or  would,  perhaps,  feel  a  sense  of  relief.  And  doubt- 
less she  would  offer  up  to  God  a  prayer  in  which  his  name 
would  be  mentioned.  Women  who  loved  God  were  always 
ready  with  a  prayer.  If  it  came  too  late,  never  mind !  It  was 
a  prayer,  and  therefore  an  act  acceptable  to  God. 

But  Mrs.  Clarke?  Certainly  she  would  not  pray  about  it. 
Dion  had  a  feeling  that  she  would  be  angry.  He  had  never 
seen  her  angry,  but  he  felt  sure  she  could  be  enraged  in  a 
frozen,  still,  terrible  way.  If  he  died  perhaps  a  thread  would 
snap,  the  thread  of  her  design.  For  she  had  some  purpose 
in  connexion  with  him.  She  had  willed  him  to  come  to  this 
place;  she  was  willing  him  to  remain  in  it.  Apparently  she 
wished  to  raise  him  out  of  the  dust.  He  thought  of  Eyub,  of 
Mrs.  Clarke  walking  beside  him  on  the  dusty  road.  She  had 
seemed  very  much  at  home  in  the  dust.  But  she  was  not  like 
Rosamund;  she  was  not  afraid  of  a  speck  of  dust  falling 
upon  the  robe  of  her  ideals.  What  was  Mrs.  Clarke's  purpose 
in  connexion  with  him?  He  did  not  pursue  that  question, 
but  dismissed  it,  incurious  still  in  his  misery,  which  had 
become  more  active  since  his  strength  had  stirred  out  of  sleep. 
If  he  did  not  die  how  was  he  going  to  live?  He  had  lived 
by  the  affections.  Could  he  live  by  the  lusts?  He  had  no 
personal  ambitions;  he  had  no  avarice  to  prompt  him  to  energy; 
he  was  not  in  love  with  himself.  Suddenly  he  realized  the 
value  of  egoism  to  the  egoist,  and  that  he  wras  very  poor  be- 
cause he  was  really  not  an  egoist  by  nature.  If  he  had  been, 
if  he  were,  perhaps  things  would  have  gone  better  for  him  in 
the  past,  would  be  more  endurable  now.  But  he  had  lived 
not  to  himself  but  to  another. 

He  told  himself  that  to  do  that  was  the  rankest  folly.     At 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  417 

any  rate  he  would  never  do  that  again.  But  the  unselfishness 
of  love  had  become  a  habit  with  him.  Even  in  his  extreme 
youth  he  had  instinctively  saved  up,  moved,  no  doubt,  by  an 
inherent  desire  to  have  as  large  a  gift  as  possible  ready  when 
the  moment  for  giving  came. 

If  he  lived  on  he  must  live  for  himself;  he  must  reverse  all 
his  rules  of  conduct;  he  must  fling  himself  into  the  life  of 
self-gratification.  He  had  come  to  believe  that  the  men  who 
trample  are  the  men  who  succeed  and  who  have  the  happiest 
lives.  Sensitiveness  does  not  pay;  loving  consideration  of 
others  brings  no  real  reward;  men  do  not  get  what  they  give. 
It  is  the  hard  and  the  passionate  man  who  is  the  victor  in  life, 
not  the  man  who  is  tender,  thoughtful,  even  unselfish  in  the 
midst  of  his  passion.  Self-control  —  what  a  reward  Dion  had 
received  for  the  self-control  of  his  youth! 

If  he  lived  he  would  cast  it  away. 

He  sat  at  his  window  till  dawn,  till  the  sea  woke  and  the 
hills  of  Asia  were  visible  under  a  clear  and  delicate  sky.  He 
leaned  out  and  felt  the  atmosphere  of  beginning  that  is  peculiar 
to  the  first  hour  of  daylight.  Could  he  begin  again?  It 
ceemed  impossible.  Yet  now  he  felt  he  could  not  deprive  him- 
self of  life.  Suicide  is  a  cowardly  act,  even  though  a  certain 
kind  of  courage  must  prompt  the  pulling  of  the  trigger,  the 
insertion  of  the  knife,  or  the  pouring  between  the  lips  of  the 
poison.  Dion  had  not  the  courage  of  that  cowardice,  or  the 
cowardice  of  that  courage.  Perhaps,  without  knowing  it,  in 
deciding  to  live  he  was  only  taking  one  more  step  on  the  road 
whose  beginning  he  had  seen  in  Elis,  as  he  waited  alone  out- 
side of  the  house  where  Hermes  watched  over  the  child;  was 
saving  the  distant  Rosamund  from  a  stroke  which  would  pierce 
through  her  armor  even  though  she  knelt  before  the  throne  of 
God.  But  he  was  conscious  only  of  the  feeling  that  he  could 
not  kill  himself,  though  he  did  not  know  why  he  could  not. 
The  capacity  for  suicide  evidently  was  not  contained  in  his 
nature.  He  rejected  the  worm  of  Izrail;  he  rejected,  too,  the 
other  death.  He  must,  then,  live. 

He  washed  and  lay  down  on  his  bed.  And  directly  he  lay 
down  he  wondered  why  he  had  been  sitting  up  and  mentally 
debating  a  great  question.  For  in  the  Valley  of  Roses  he  had 
surely  decided  it  before  he  spoke  to  Sir  Carey  Ingleton.  When 
he  said  he  would  visit  Lady  Ingleton  he  must  have  decided. 
That  visit  would  mean  the  return  to  what  is  called  normal  life, 
the  exit  from  the  existence  of  a  castaway,  the  entrance  into 


4i8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

relations  with  his  kind.  He  dreaded  that  visit,  but  he  meant 
to  pay  it.  In  paying  it  he  would  take  his  first  step  away 
from  the  death  that  walks  in  form  of  life. 

He  could  not  sleep,  and  soon  he  got  up  again  and  went  to 
the  window.  A  gust  of  wind  came  to  him  from  the  sea.  It 
seemed  to  hint  at  a  land  that  was  cold,  and  he  thought  of 
Russia,  and  then  again  of  the  distant  places  in  which  he  might 
lose  himself,  places  in  which  no  one  would  know  who  he  was, 
or  trouble  about  the  past  events  of  his  life.  There  before  him 
was  Asia  rising  out  of  the  dawn.  He  had  only  to  cross  a 
narrow  bit  of  sea  and  a  continent  was  ready  to  receive  him 
and  to  hide  him.  So  he  had  thought  of  Africa  on  many  a 
night  as  he  sat  in  the  Hotel  des  Colonies  at  Marseilles.  But 
he  had  not  crossed  to  Africa. 

The  wind  died  away.  It  had  only  been  a  capricious  gust, 
a  wandering  guest  of  the  morning.  Down  below^  in  the  Bay 
of  Buyukderer  the  waters  were  quiet;  the  row  boats  lay  still 
at  the  edge  of  the  quay;  the  small  yachts,  with  their  sails  furled, 
slept  at  their  moorings.  The  wind  had  been  like  a  summons, 
a  sudden  tug  at  him  as  of  a  hand  saying,  with  its  bones,  its 
muscles,  its  nerves,  its  sinews,  "  Come  with  me !  " 

Once  before  he  had  felt  something  like  that  in  a  London 
Divorce  Court,  but  it  had  been  fainter,  subtler  and  perhaps 
warmer.  The  memory  of  his  curiosity  about  the  unwise  life 
returned  to  him,  somehow  linked  with  the  wandering  wind. 
In  his  months  of  the  living  death  he  had  often  looked  on  at  it 
in  the  cities  through  which  he  had  drifted,  but  he  had  never 
taken  part  in  it.  He  had  been  emptied  of  the  force  to  do  that 
by  his  misery.  Now  he  was  conscious  of  force  though  his 
misery  was  not  lessened,  seemed  to  him  even  to  have  increased. 
He  had  often  been  dulled  by  grief;  now  he  felt  cruelly 
alive. 

He  went  down  to  the  sea,  found  the  Albanian  boatman  with 
whom  he  had  rowed  on  his  first  day  at  Buyukderer,  took  his 
boat  out  and  bathed  from  it.  The  current  beyond  the  bay 
was  strong.  He  had  a  longing  to  let  it  take  him  whither  it 
would.  If  only  he  could  find  an  influence  to  which  he  could 
give  himself,  an  influence  whose  strength  upon  him  would  be 
tremendous,  an  influence  which  would  sweep  him  away! 

If  only  he  could  get  rid  of  his  long  fidelity! 

When  he  climbed  dripping,  and  with  his  hair  plastered 
down  on  his  forehead,  into  the  boat,  the  Albanian  stared  at 
him  as  if  in  surprise. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  419 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Dion  in  French,  when  he  was 
dry  and  getting  into  his  clothes. 

But  the  man  only  replied: 

'•  Monsieur  tres  fort  molto  forte,  moi  aussi  tres  fort.  Mon- 
sieur venez  sempre  con  moi!  " 

And  he  smiled  with  the  evident  intention  of  being  agree- 
able to  a  valuable  client.  Dion  did  not  badger  him  with  any 
more  questions.  As  the  boat  touched  the  quay  he  told  the 
man  to  be  ready  to  start  for  Therapia  that  day  at  any  time 
after  three  o'clock. 

When  he  reached  the  summer  villa  of  the  Ambassador  he 
was  informed  by  a  tall  English  footman  that  Lady  Ingleton 
was  at  home.  She  received  Dion  in  the  midst  of  the  little  dogs, 
but  after  he  had  been  with  her  for  a  very  few  minutes  she  rang 
for  a  servant  and  banished  them.  Secretly  she  was  deeply 
interested  in  this  man  who  had  killed  his  son,  but  she  gave 
Dion  no  reason  to  suppose  that  she  was  concentrating  on  him. 
Her  lazy,  indifferent  manner  was  perfectly  natural,  but  per- 
haps now  and  then  she  was  more  definitely  kind  than  usual; 
and  she  managed  somehow  to  show  Dion  that  she  was  ready 
to  be  his  friend. 

"  If  you  stay  long  we  must  take  you  over  one  day  on  the 
yacht  to  Brusa,"  she  said  presently.  "  Cynthia  loves  Brusa, 
and  so  does  my  husband.  We  went  over  there  once  with  Pierre 
Loti.  Cynthia  and  poor  Beadon  Clarke  were  of  the  party, 
I  remember.  We  had  a  delightful  time." 

"  Why  do  you  say  poor  Beadon  Clarke  ? "  asked  Dion 
abruptly. 

That  day  he  was  at  a  great  parting  of  the  ways.  He  was 
concentrated  upon  himself  and  his  own  decision,  so  concen- 
trated that  the  conventions  meant  little  to  him.  He  was  totally 
unaware  of  the  bruskness  of  such  a  question  asked  of  a  woman 
whom  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  One  pities  a  thoroughly  good  fellow  who  does  a  thoroughly 
foolish  thing.  It  was  a  very,  very  foolish  thing  to  do  to  attack 
Cynthia." 

"  I  was  in  court  during  part  of  the  trial." 

"  Well,  then,  you  know  how  foolish  it  was.  Some  people 
can't  be  attacked  with  impunity." 

The  inflexion  of  Lady  Ingleton's  voice  at  that  moment  made 
Dion  think  of  Mrs.  Chetwinde.  Once  or  twice  Mrs.  Chet- 
winde's  voice  had  sounded  almost  exactly  like  that  when  she 
had  spoken  of  Mrs.  Clarke. 


420  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Especially  people  who  are  innocent,"  he  said. 

"  Naturally,  as  Cynthia  was.  Beadon  Clarke  made  a  ter- 
rible mistake,  poor  fellow." 

When  Dion  got  up  to  go  she  again  alluded  to  his  staying 
on  at  Bu>ukderer,  with  an  "  if  "  attached  to  the  allusion,  and 
her  dark  eyes,  which  looked  like  an  Italian's,  rested  upon  him 
with  a  soft,  but  very  intelligent,  scrutiny.  He  had  an  odd 
feeling  that  she  had  taken  a  liking  to  him,  and  yet  that  she  did 
not  wish  him  to  stay  on  in  Buyukderer. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  the  hideous  freedom  of  his  empty  life  seemed 
to  gather  itself  together,  and  to  flow  stealthily  upon  him  like 
a  filthy  wave  bearing  refuse  upon  its  surface. 

"  I'm  a  free  agent,"  he  added,  looking  hard  at  Lady  Ingle- 
ton.  "  I  have  no  ties." 

He  shook  her  hand  and  went  away. 

That  evening  she  said  to  her  husband: 

"  I  have  felt  sorry  for  myself  occasionally,  and  for  other 
people  in  my  Christian  moments,  but  I  have  never  in  the  past 
felt  so  sorry  for  any  one  as  I  feel  now  for  Mr.  Leith." 

"  Because  of  the  tragedy  which  has  marred  his  life?  " 

"  It  isn't  only  that.     He's  on  the  edge  of  so  much." 

"You  don't  mean ?" 

Sir  Carey  paused. 

"  No,  no,"  Lady  Ingleton  said,  almost  impatiently.  "  Life 
hasn't  done  with  that  man  yet.  I  could  almost  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  wish  it  had.  Shall  we  take  him  to  Brusa  on  the  yacht? 
That  would  advertise  our  acquaintance  with  him  to  all  the 
gossips  on  the  Bosporus.  I  promised  Cynthia  I  would  throw 
my  mantle  over  him." 

"  I'm  always  ready  for  a  visit  to  your  only  rival,"  said  Sir 
Carey. 

"  La  Mosquee  Verte !  I'll  think  about  it.  We  might  go 
for  three  or  four  days." 

Her  warm  voice  sounded  rather  reluctant;  yet  her  husband 
knew  that  she  wished  to  go. 

"  It  would  be  an  excellent  way  of  showing  your  mantle  to 
the  gossips,"  he  remarked.  "  But  you  always  think  of  excellent 
ways." 

Two  days  later  the  Embassy  yacht,  the  "  Leyla,"  having  on 
board  Sir  Carey  and  Lady  Ingleton,  Mrs.  Clarke,  Cyril  Vane, 
Dion,  and  Turkish  Jane,  the  doyenne  of  the  Pekinese,  sailed 
for  Mudania  on  the  sea  of  Marmora,  which  is  the  Port  of  Brusa. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  421 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  the  day  after  the  return  of  the  "  Leyla "  from 
Mudania,  Mrs.  Clarke  asked  Dion  if  he  would  dine 
with  her  at  the  Villa  Hafiz.  She  asked  him  by  word 
of  mouth.  They  had  met  on  the  quay.  It  was  morning, 
and  Dion  was  about  to  embark  in  the  Albanian's  boat  for  a 
row  on  the  Bosporus  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Clarke's  thin  figure 
approaching  him  under  a  white  umbrella  lined  with  delicate 
green.  She  was  wearing  smoked  spectacles,  which  made  her 
white  face  look  strange  and  almost  forbidding  in  the  strong 
sunlight. 

"  I  can't  come,"  he  said. 

And  there  was  a  sound  almost  of  desperation  in  his  voice. 

"  I  can't." 

She  said  nothing,  but  she  stood  there  beside  him  looking 
very  inflexible.  Apparently  she  was  waiting  for  an  explana- 
tion of  his  refusal,  though  she  did  not  ask  for  it. 

"  I  can't  be  with  people.  It's  no  use.  I've  tried  it.  You 
didn't  know " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  she  interrupted  him. 

"You  did  know?" 

He  stood  staring  blankly  at  her. 

"  Surely  I  —  I  tried  my  best.     I  did  my  utmost  to  hide  it." 

"  You  couldn't  hide  it  from  me." 

"  I  must  go  away,"  he  said. 

"  Come  to-night.     Nobody  will  be  there." 

"  It  isn't  a  party?" 

"  We  shall  be  alone." 

"  You  meant  to  ask  people?  " 

"  I  won't.     I'll  ask  nobody.     Half-past  eight?  " 

"  I'll  come,"  he  said. 

She  turned  away  without  another  word. 

Just  after  half-past  eight  he  rang  at  the  door  of  the  villa. 

As  he  went  into  the  hall  and  smelt  the  strong  perfume  of 
flowers  he  wondered  that  he  had  dared  to  come.  But  he  had 
been  with  Mrs.  Clarke  when  she  was  in  horrible  circumstances; 
he  had  sat  and  watched  her  when  she  was  under  the  knife; 
he  had  helped  her  to  pass  through  a  crowd  of  people  fighting 
to  stare  at  her  and  making  hideous  comments  upon  her.  Then 
why,  even  to-night,  should  he  dread  her  eyes?  His  remem- 


422  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

brance  of  her  tragedy  made  him  feel  that  hers  was  the  one 
house  into  which  he  could  enter  that  night. 

As  he  walked  into  the  dra,wing-room  he  recollected  walking 
into  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  drawing-room,  full  of  interest  in  the 
woman  who  was  in  sanctuary,  but  who  was  soon  to  be  de- 
livered up,  stripped  by  a  man  of  the  law's  horrible  allegations, 
to  the  gaping  crowd.  Now  she  was  living  peacefully  among 
her  friends,  the  custodian  of  her  boy,  a  woman  who  had  won 
through;  and  he  was  a  wanderer,  a  childless  father,  the  slayer 
of  his  son. 

Mrs.  Clarke  kept  him  waiting  for  a  few  minutes.  He  stood 
at  the  French  window  and  listened  to  the  fountain.  In  the 
fall  of  the  water  there  was  surely  an  undertune.  He  seemed 
to  know  that  it  was  there  and  yet  he  could  not  hear  it;  and 
he  felt  baffled  as  if  by  a  thin  mystery. 

Then  Mrs.  Clarke  came  in  and  they  went  at  once  to  dinner. 

During  dinner  they  talked  very  little.  She  spoke  when  the 
Greek  butler  was  in  the  room,  and  Dion  did  his  best  in  reply; 
nevertheless  the  conversation  languished.  Although  Dion  had 
so  few  words  to  give  to  his  hostess  he  felt  abnormally  alive. 
The  whole  of  him  was  like  a  quivering  nerve. 

When  dinner  was  over  Mrs.  Clarke  said  to  the  butler: 

"  Osman  will  make  the  coffee  for  us.  He  knows  about  it. 
We  shall  have  it  in  the  pavilion." 

The  butler,  who,  although  a  Greek,  looked  at  that  moment 
almost  incredibly  stolid,  moved  his  rather  pouting  lips,  no 
doubt  in  assent,  and  was  gone.  They  saw  him  no  more  that 
night. 

They  walked  slowly  from  terrace  to  terrace  of  the  climbing 
garden  till  they  came  to  the  height  on  which  the  pavilion  stood 
guarded  by  the  two  mighty  cypresses.  There  was  no  moon, 
and  the  night  was  a  very  dark  purple  night,  with  stars  that 
looked  dim  and  remote,  like  lost  stars  in  the  wilderness  of 
infinity.  From  the  terraces  came  the  scent  of  flowers.  In  the 
pavilion  one  hanging  lamp  gave  a  faint  light  which  empha- 
sized the  obscurity.  It  shone  through  colored  panes  and  drew 
thick  shadows  on  the  floor  and  on  sections  of  the  divans.  The 
heaps  of  cushions  were  colorless,  and  had  a  strange  look  of 
unyielding  massiveness,  as  if  they  were  blocks  of  some  hard 
material.  Osman  stood  beside  one  of  the  coffee-tables. 

As  soon  as  his  mistress  appeared  he  began  to  make  the  coffee. 
Dion  stayed  upon  the  terrace,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  went  into  the 
pavilion  and  sat  down. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  423 

The  cypresses  were  like  dark  towers  in  the  night.  Dion 
looked  up  at  them.  Their  summits  were  lost  in  the  brooding 
purple  darkness.  Cypresses!  Why  had  he  thought  of 
cypresses  in  England  in  connexion  with  Mrs.  Clarke?  Why 
had  he  seen  her  standing  among  cypresses,  seen  himself  coming 
to  her  and  with  her  in  the  midst  of  the  immense  shadows  they 
cast?  No  doubt  simply  because  he  knew  she  lived  much  in 
Turkey,  the  land  of  the  cypress.  That  must  have  been  the 
reason.  Nevertheless  now  he  was  oppressed  by  a  weight  of 
mystery  somehow  connected  with  those  dark  and  gigantic  trees; 
and  he  remembered  the  theory  that  the  past,  the  present  and 
the  future  are  simultaneously  in  being,  and  that  those  who  are 
said  to  read  the  future  in  reality  possess  only  the  power  of 
seeing  what  already  is  on  another  plane.  Had  he  in  England, 
however  vaguely,  however  dimly,  seen  as  through  a  crack  some 
blurred  vision  of  what  was  already  in  existence?  He  felt 
almost  afraid  of  the  cypresses.  Nevertheless,  as  he  stood  look- 
ing up  at  them,  his  sense  almost  of  fear  tempted  him  to  make 
an  experiment.  He  remained  absolutely  still,  and  strove  to  con- 
centrate all  his  faculties.  After  a  long  pause  he  shut  his  eyes. 

"  If  the  far  future  is  even  now  in  being,"  he  said  mentally, 
"  let  me  look  upon  it  now." 

He  saw  nothing;  but  immediately  he  heard  the  sound  of 
wind  among  pine  trees,  as  he  had  heard  it  with  Rosamund  in 
the  green  valley  of  Elis.  It  rose  in  the  silent  night,  that  long 
murmur  of  eternity,  and  presently  faded  away. 

He  shuddered  and  turned  sharply  towards  the  pavilion. 

Osman  had  gone,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  was  pouring  the  coffee 
into  the  tiny  cups. 

"There's  no  wind,  is  there  —  is  there?  "  he  asked  her. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  But  not  a  breath!  "  she  said. 

After  a  pause  she  added: 

"Why  do  you  ask  such  a  thing?  " 

"  I  heard  wind  in  —  in  the  tops  of  trees,"  he  almost 
stammered. 

"  That's  impossible." 

"  But  I  say  I  did!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  violence.  "  In 
pine  trees." 

"  There  are  no  pine  trees  here,"  she  said,  in  her  husky  voice. 
"  Sit  down  and  have  your  coffee." 

He  obeyed  her  and  sat  down  quickly,  and  quickly  he  took 
the  coffee-cup  from  her. 


424  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Have  a  little  mastika  with  it,"  she  said. 

And  she  pushed  a  tall  liqueur-glass  full  of  the  colorless  liquid 
towards  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

As  he  drank  he  looked  out  sideways  through  the  wide  opening 
in  the  pavilion.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind. 

"  I  can't  understand  why  I  heard  the  noise  of  wind  in  pine 
trees,"  he  forced  himself  to  say. 

"  Seemed  to  hear  it,"  she  corrected  him.  "  Perhaps  you 
were  thinking  of  it." 

"But  I  wasn't!" 

A  jeweled  gleam  from  the  lamp  fell  upon  one  side  of  her 
face.  She  moved,  and  the  light  dropped  away  from  her. 

"  What  were  you  thinking  of?  "  she  asked. 

"  Of  the  future." 

"Ah!" 

"That's  why  it  is  inexplicable." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more,"  he  said,  in  an  almost 
terrible  voice.  "  I  must  have  had  an  hallucination." 

"  Have  you  ever  before  thought  you  were  the  victim  of  an 
hallucination  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes.  Several  times  I  have  seen  the  eyes  of  my  little  boy. 
I  saw  them  a  few  nights  ago  in  the  stream  that  flows  through 
the  Valley  of  Roses,  just  after  Sir  Carey  had  left  me." 

"  Don't  look  into  water  again  except  in  daylight.  It  is  the 
night  that  brings  fancies  with  it.  If  you  gaze  very  long  at 
anything  in  a  dim  light  you  are  sure  to  see  something  strange 
or  horrible." 

"  But  an  hallucination  of  sound !  I  must  go  away  from 
here!  Perhaps  in  some  other  place " 

But  she  interrupted  him  inflexibly. 

"  Going  away  would  be  absolutely  useless.  A  man  can't 
travel  away  from  himself." 

"  But  I  can't  lead  a  normal  life.  It's  impossible.  Those 
horrible  nights  on  the  '  Leyla  ' " 

He  stopped.  The  effort  he  had  made  during  the  trip  to 
Brusa  seemed  to  have  exhausted  the  last  remnants  of  any  moral 
force  he  had  still  possessed  when  he  started  on  that  journey. 

"  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  begin  again,  to  lay  hold  on 
some  sort  of  real  life,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause.  "  I  was 
determined  to  face  things.  I  called  at  Therapia.  I  accepted 
Lady  Ingleton's  invitation.  I've  done  all  I  can  to  make  a  new 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  425 

start.     But  it's  no  use.     I  can't  keep  it  up.     I  haven't  the 
force  for  it.     It  was  hell  —  being  with  happy  people." 

"  You  mean  the  Ingletons.     Yes,  they  are  very  happy." 

"  And  Vane,  who's  just  engaged  to  be  married.  I  saw  her 
photograph  in  his  cabin.  They  were  all  —  all  very  kind. 
Lady  Ingleton  did  everything  to  make  me  feel  at  ease.  He's 
a  delightful  fellow  —  the  Ambassador,  I  mean.  But  I  simply 
can't  stand  mingling  my  life  with  lives  that  are  happy.  So 
I  had  better  go  away  and  be  alone  again." 

"  And  lives  that  are  unhappy?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Can't  you  mingle  your  life  with  them,  or  with  one  of 
them?" 

He  was  silent,  looking  towards  her.  She  was  wearing  a 
very  dark  blue  tea-gown  of  some  thin  material  in  which  her 
thin  body  seemed  lost.  He  saw  the  dark  folds  of  it  flowing 
over  the  divan  on  which  she  was  leaning,  and  trailing  to  the 
rug  at  her  feet.  Her  face  was  a  faint  whiteness  under  her 
colorless  hair.  Her  eyes  were  two  darknesses  in  it.  He  could 
not  see  them  distinctly,  but  he  knew  they  were  looking  intent 
and  distressed. 

"Haven't  you  told  me  I  look  punished?"  said  the  husky 
voice. 

"  Are  you  unhappy?  "  he  asked. 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  much  reason  to  be  happy?  " 

"  You  have  your  boy." 

"  For  a  few  weeks  in  the  year.  I  have  lost  my  husband 
in  a  horrible  way,  worse  than  if  he  had  died.  I  live  entirely 
alone.  I  can't  marry  again.  And  yet  I'm  not  at  all  old,  and 
not  at  all  finished.  But  perhaps  you  have  never  really  thought 
about  my  situation  seriously.  After  all,  why  should  you? 
Why  should  any  one?  I  won  my  case,  and  so  of  course  it's 
all  right." 

"  Are  you  unhappy,  then  ?  " 

"What  do  you  suppose  about  me?" 

"  I  know  you've  gone  through  a  great  deal.  But  you  have, 
your  boy." 

There  was  a  sound  almost  of  dull  obstinacy  in  his  voice. 

"  Some  women  are  not  merely  mothers,  or  potential  mothers !  " 
said  an  almost  fierce  voice.  "  Some  women  are  just  women 
first  and  mothers  second.  There  are  women  who  love  men  for 
themselves,  not  merely  because  men  are  possible  child-bringers. 
To  a  real  and  complete  woman  no  child  can  ever  be  the  perfect 


426  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

substitute  for  a  husband  or  a  lover.  Even  nature  has  put  the 
lover  first  and  the  child  second.  I  forbid  you  to  say  that  I 
have  my  boy,  as  if  that  settled  the  question  of  my  happiness. 
I  forbid  you." 

He  heard  her  breathing  quickly.     Then  she  added: 

"  But  how  could  you  be  expected  to  understand  women  like 
me?" 

The  intensity  of  her  sudden  outburst  startled  him  as  the 
strength  of  the  current  in  the  Bosporus  had  startled  him  when 
he  plunged  into  the  sea  from  the  Albanian's  boat. 

"  You  have  been  brought  up  in  another  school,"  she  con- 
tinued slowly,  and  with  a  sort  of  icy  bitterness.  "  I  forgive 
you." 

She  got  up  from  the  divan  and  went  out  upon  the  terrace, 
leaving  him  alone  in  the  pavilion,  which  seemed  suddenly 
colder  when  she  had  left  it. 

He  did  not  follow  her.  A  breath  from  a  human  furnace 
had  scorched  him  —  had  scorched  the  nerve,  and  the  nerve 
quivered. 

"  You  have  been  brought  up  in  a  different  school."  Welsley 
and  Stamboul  —  Rosamund  and  Mrs.  Clarke.  Once,  some- 
where, he  had  made  that  comparison.  As  he  sat  in  the  pavilion 
it  seemed  to  him  that  for  a  moment  he  heard  the  cool  chiming 
of  bells  in  a  gray  cathedral  tower,  the  faint  sound  of  the 
Dresden  Amen.  But  he  looked  out  through  the  opening  in 
the  pavilion,  and  far  down  below  he  saw  lights  on  the  Bay 
of  Buyukderer,  the  vague  outlines  of  hills;  and  the  perfume 
that  came  to  him  out  of  the  night  was  not  the  damp  smell  of 
an  English  garden. 

An  English  garden!  In  the  darkness  of  a  November  night 
he  stood  within  the  walls  of  an  English  garden;  he  heard  a  cry, 
saw  the  movement  of  a  woman's  body,  and  knew  that  his  life 
was  in  ruins.  The  woman  fled,  but  he  followed  her  blindly; 
he  sought  for  her  in  the  dark.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he 
had  been  but  the  instrument  of  Fate,  that  he  was  not  to  blame, 
that  he  needed  compassion  more  than  any  other  man  living. 
But  she  eluded  him  in  the  darkness,  and  presently  he  heard  a 
key  grind  in  a  lock.  A  friend  had  locked  the  door  of  his  home 
against  him  in  order  that  his  wife  might  have  time  to  escape 
from  him. 

Then  he  heard  a  husky  voice  say,  "  My  friend,  it  will  have 
to  come."  And,  suddenly,  it  came. 

He  broke  down  absolutely,  threw  himself  on  his  face  on 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  427 

the  divan  with  his  arms  stretched  out  beyond  his  head,  grasped 
the  cushions  and  sobbed.  His  body  shook  and  twitched;  his 
face  was  contorted;  his  soul  writhed.  A  storm  that  came  from 
within  him  broke  upon  him.  He  crashed  into  the  abyss. 
Down,  down  he  went,  till  the  last  faint  ray  from  above  was 
utterly  blotted  out.  She  whom  he  had  loved  so  much  sent 
him  down,  she  who  far  away  had  given  herself  to  God.  He 
felt  her  ruthless  hands  —  the  hands  of  a  good  woman,  the 
hands  of  a  loving  mother  —  pressing  him  down.  Let  her  have 
her  will.  He  would  go  into  the  last  darkness.  Then,  perhaps, 
she  would  be  more  at  ease;  then,  perhaps,  she  would  know  the 
true  peace  of  God.  He  would  pay  to  the  uttermost  farthing 
both  for  himself  and  for  her. 

Outside,  just  hidden  from  him  by  the  pavilion  wall,  Mrs. 
Clarke  stood  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  cypresses,  and  listened. 
The  trip  on  the  "  Leyla  "  had  served  two  purposes.  It  was 
better  so.  When  a  thing  must  be,  the  sooner  it  is  over  the 
better.  And  she  had  waited  for  a  very  long  time.  She  drew 
her  brows  together  as  she  thought  of  the  long  time  she  had 
waited.  Then  she  moved  and  walked  away  down  the  terrace. 
She  had  heard  enough. 

She  went  to  the  far  end  of  the  terrace.  A  wooden  seat  was 
placed  there  in  the  shadow  of  a  plane  tree.  She  sat  down  on 
it,  rested  her  pointed  chin  in  the  palm  of  her  right  hand,  with 
her  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  remained  motionless.  She  was 
giving  him  time;  time  to  weep  away  the  past  and  the  good 
woman  who  had  ruined  his  life.  Even  now  she  knew  how  to 
be  patient.  In  a  way  she  pitied  him.  If  she  had  not  had  to 
be  patient  for  such  a  long  time  she  would  have  pitied  him  much 
more.  But  he  had  often  hurt  her;  and,  as  Lady  Ingleton  had 
said,  she  was  by  nature  a  cruel  woman.  Nevertheless  she  pitied 
him  for  being,  or  for  having  been,  so  exclusive  in  love.  And 
she  wondered  at  him  not  a  little. 

Lit-up  caiques  glided  out  on  the  bay  far  beneath  her.  A 
band  was  playing  on  the  quay.  She  wished  it  would  stop, 
and  she  glanced  at  a  little  watch  which  Aristide  Dumeny  had 
given  her,  and  which  was  pinned  among  the  dark  blue  folds 
of  her  gown.  But  she  could  not  see  its  face  clearly,  and  she 
lit  a  match.  A  quarter-past  ten.  The  band  played  till  eleven. 
She  lit  a  cigarette  and  stared  down  the  hill  at  the  moving  lights 
in  the  bay. 

She  had  made  many  water  excursions  at  night.  Some  of 
them  —  two  or  three  at  least  —  had  been  mentioned  in  the 


428  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Divorce  Court.  She  had  had  a  narrow  escape  that  summer 
in  London.  It  had  given  her  a  lesson;  but  she  still  had  much 
to  learn  before  she  could  be  considered  a  past  mistress  in  the 
school  of  discretion.  Almost  ever  since  she  could  remember 
she  had  been  driven  by  the  reckless  spirit  within  her.  But 
she  had  been  given  a  compensation  for  that  in  the  force  of  her 
will.  That  force  had  done  wonders  for  her  all  through  her 
life.  It  had  even  captured  and  retained  for  her  many  women 
friends.  Driven  she  had  been,  and  no  doubt  would  always 
be,  but  she  believed  that  she  would  always  skirt  the  precipices 
of  life,  and  would  never  fall  into  the  abysses. 

The  timorous  and  overscrupulous  women  were  the  women 
who  missed  their  footing,  because,  when  they  made  a  false 
step,  they  made  it  in  fear  and  trembling,  with  the  shadow  of 
regret  always  dogging  their  heels.  And  yet,  now  Jimmy  was 
getting  a  big  boy,  even  she  knew  moments  of  fear. 

She  moved  restlessly.  The  torch  was  luring  her  on,  and 
yet  now,  for  an  instant,  she  was  conscious  of  holding  back. 
August  was  not  far  off;  Jimmy  was  coming  out  to  her  for  his 
holidays.  Suppose,  after  all,  she  gave  it  up?  A  word  from 
her  —  or  merely  a  silence  —  and  that  man  in  the  pavilion  close 
by  would  go  away  from  Buyukderer  and  would  probably  never 
come  back.  If,  for  once  in  her  life,  she  played  for  safety? 

The  sound  of  the  band  on  the  quay  —  there  had  been  a  short 
interval  of  silence  —  came  up  to  her  again.  Forty  minutes 
more!  She  would  give  that  man  in  the  pavilion  and  herself 
forty  minutes.  She  could  see  the  lights  which  outlined  the 
kiosk.  When  they  went  out  she  would  come  to  a  decision. 
Till  then,  sitting  alone,  she  could  indulge  in  a  mental  debate. 
The  mere  fact  that,  at  this  point,  she  debated  the  question 
which  filled  her  mind  proved  Jimmy's  power  over  her.  As  she 
thought  that  she  began  to  resent  her  boy's  power.  And  it 
would  grow;  inevitably  it  would  grow.  She  moved  her  thin 
shoulders.  Then  she  sat  very  still. 

If  only  she  didn't  love  Jimmy  so  much!  Suppose  she  had 
lost  her  case  in  the  Divorce  Court  and  Jimmy  had  been  taken 
away  from  her?  Even  now  she  shuddered  when  she  thought 
of  the  risk  she  had  run.  She  remembered  again  the  period 
of  waiting  M7hen  the  jury  could  not  come  to  an  agreement. 
What  torture  she  had  endured,  though  no  one  knew  it,  or, 
perhaps,  ever  would  know  it!  Had  not  that  torture  been  a 
tremendous  warning  to  her  against  the  unwise  life?  Why 
go  into  danger  again?  But  perhaps  there  was  no  danger  any 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 


429 


more.  A  man  who  has  tried  to  divorce  his  wife  once,  and  has 
failed,  is  scarcely  likely  to  try  again.  Nevertheless  she  was 
full  of  hesitation  to-night. 

This  fact  puzzled  and  almost  alarmed  her,  for  she  was  not 
given  to  hesitation.  She  was  a  woman  who  thought  clearly, 
who  knew  what  she  wanted  and  what  she  did  not  want,  and 
who  acted  promptly  and  decisively.  Perhaps  she  hesitated 
now  because  she  had  been  forced  to  remain  inactive  in  this 
particular  case  for  such  a  long  time;  or  perhaps  she  had  re- 
ceived an  obscure  warning  from  something  within  her  which 
knew  what  she  —  the  whole  of  her  that  was  Cynthia  Clarke  — 
did  not  consciously  know. 

The  leaves  of  the  plane  tree  rustled  above  her  head,  and  she 
sighed.  As  she  sat  there  in  the  purple  darkness  she  looked 
like  a  victim;  and  for  a  moment  she  thought  of  herself  as  a 
victim. 

Even  that  man  in  the  pavilion  who  was  agonizing  had  said 
to  her  that  she  looked  "  punished."  She  had  been  surprised, 
almost  startled,  by  his  flash  of  discernment.  But  she  was  sure 
he  thought  that  matter  only  a  question  of  coloring,  of  emaci- 
ation, of  the  shapes  of  features,  and  of  the  way  eyes  were  set 
in  the  head. 

When  would  the  lights  far  below  go  out?  She  hated  her 
indecision.  It  was  new  to  her,  and  she  felt  it  to  be  a  weak- 
ness. Whatever  she  had  been  till  now,  she  had  certainly  never 
been  a  weak  womnn,  except  perhaps  from  the  absurd  point  of 
view  of  the  Exeter  Hall  moralist.  Scruples  had  been  strangers 
to  her,  a  baggage  she  had  not  burdened  herself  with  on  her 
journey. 

Jimmy!  That  night  Dion  Leith  had  told  her  that  he  had 
seen  the  eyes  of  his  boy  in  the  stream  that  flowed  through 
the  Kesstane  Dereh.  She  looked  out  into  the  purple  night, 
and  somewhere  in  the  dim  vastness  full  of  mysteries  and  of 
half  revelations  she  saw  the  frank  and  merciless  eyes  of  a 
young  Eton  boy. 

Should  she  be  governed  by  them?  Could  she  submit  to 
the  ignorant  domination  of  a  child  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
complications  of  human  life,  nothing  of  the  ways  in  which 
human  beings  are  driven  by  imperious  desires,  or  needs,  which 
have  perhaps  been  sown  in  ground  of  flesh  and  blood  by  dead 
parents,  or  by  ancestors  laid  even  with  the  dust?  Could  she 
immolate  herself  before  the  altar  of  the  curious  love  which 
grew  within  her  as  Jimmy  grew? 


430  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  was  by  nature  perverse,  and  it  was  partly  her  love  for 
Jimmy  which  pushed  her  towards  the  man  who  had  killed  his 
son.  But  she  had  not  told  that  even  to  herself.  And  she 
never  told  her  secrets  to  other  people,  not  even  when  they  were 
women  friends! 

The  lights  in  the  kiosk  on  the  quay  went  out.  Mrs.  Clarke 
was  startled  by  the  leaping  up  of  the  darkness  which  seemed 
to  come  from  the  sea.  For  her  ears  had  been  closed  against 
the  band,  and  she  had  forgotten  the  limit  she  had  mentally 
put  to  her  indecision.  Eleven  o'clock  already!  She  got  up 
from  her  seat.  But  still  she  hesitated.  She  did  not  know 
what  she  was  going  to  do.  She  stood  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  walked  softly  towards  the  pavilion.  When  she  was  near 
to  it  she  stopped  and  listened.  She  did  not  hear  any  sound 
from  within.  There  was  nothing  to  prevent  her  from  descend- 
ing to  the  villa,  from  writing  a  note  to  Dion  Leith  asking  him 
to  leave  Buyukderer  on  the  morrow,  and  from  going  up  to 
her  bedroom.  He  would  find  the  note  in  the  hall  when  he 
came  down;  he  would  go  away;  she  need  never  see  him  again. 
If  she  did  that  it  w:ould  mean  a  new  life  for  her,  free  from 
complications,  a  life  dedicated  to  Jimmy,  a  life  deliberately 
controlled. 

It  would  mean,  too,  the  futile  close  of  a  long  pursuit;  the 
crushing  of  an  old  and  hitherto  frustrated  desire;  the  return, 
when  Jimmy  went  back  to  England  after  the  holidays,  to  an 
empty  life  which  she  hated,  more  than  hated,  a  life  of  horrible 
restlessness,  a  life  in  which  the  imagination  preyed,  like  a 
vulture,  upon  the  body.  It  would  mean  the  wise,  instead  of 
the  unwise,  life. 

She  stood  there.  With  one  hand  she  felt  the  little  watch 
which  Dumeny  had  given  her.  It  was  cold  to  the  touch  of 
her  dry,  hot  hand.  She  felt  the  rough  emerald  set  in  the 
back  of  it.  She  and  Dumeny  had  found  that  in  the  bazaars 
together,  in  those  bazaars  which  Dumeny  changed  from  Eastern 
shops  into  the  Arabian  Nights.  Dion  Leith  could  never  do 
such  a  thing  as  that  for  her.  But  perhaps  she  could  do  it  for 
him.  The  thought  of  that  lured  her.  She  stood  at  the  street 
corner;  it  was  very  dark  and  still;  she  knew  that  the  strange 
ways  radiated  from  the  place  where  she  stood,  but  there  was 
no  one  to  go  with  her  down  them.  She  waited  —  waited.  And 
then  she  saw  far  off  the  gleam  of  the  torch  from  which  spring 
colored  fires.  It  flitted  through  the  darkness;  it  hovered. 
The  gleam  of  it  lit  up,  like  a  goblin  light,  the  beginnings  of 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  431 

the  strange  ways.  She  saw  shadowy  forms  slipping  away 
stealthily  into  their  narrow  and  winding  distances;  she  saw 
obscure  stairways,  leaning  balconies  full  of  soft  blackness. 
She  divined  the  rooms  beyond.  And  whispering  voices  came 
to  her  ears. 

All  the  time  she  was  feeling  the  watch  with  its  rough  uncut 
emerald. 

Government  came  upon  her.  She  felt,  as  often  before,  a 
great  hand  catch  her  in  a  grip  of  iron.  She  ceased  to  resist. 

Still  holding  the  watch,  she  went  to  the  opening  in  the 
pavilion. 

The  hanging  lamp  had  gone  out.  For  a  moment  she  could 
only  see  darkness  in  the  interior.  It  looked  empty.  There 
was  no  sound  within.  Could  the  man  she  had  been  thinking 
about,  debating  about,  have  slipped  away  while  she  was  sitting 
under  the  plane  tree?  She  had  been  thinking  so  deeply  that 
she  had  not  heard  the  noise  of  the  band  on  the  quay;  she  might 
not  have  heard  his  footsteps.  While  she  had  been  consider- 
ing whether  she  should  leave  him  perhaps  he  had  fled  from 
her. 

This  flashing  thought  brought  her  back  at  once  to  her  true 
and  irrevocable  self,  and  she  was  filled  instantly  with  fierce 
determination  and  a  cold  intense  anger.  Jimmy  was  forgotten. 
He  was  dead  to  her  at  that  moment.  She  leaned  forward, 
peering  into  the  darkness. 

"Dion!"  she  said.     "Dion!" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  she  saw  something  stir  within, 
something  low  down.  He  was  there  —  or  something  was  there, 
something  alive.  She  went  into  the  pavilion,  and  knelt  down 
by  it. 

"  Dion !  "  she  said. 

He  raised  himself  on  the  divan,  and  turned  on  his  side. 

"Why  are  you  kneeling  down?"  he  said.  "Don't  kneel. 
I  hate  to  see  a  woman  kneeling,  and  I  know  you  never  pray. 
Get  up." 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  new  to  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
hot  and  hard.  She  obeyed  him  at  once  and  got  up  from  her 
knees. 

"  What  did  you  mean  just  now  when  you  asked  me  whether 
I  couldn't  mingle  my  life  with  an  unhappy  life?  Sit  here 
beside  me." 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  divan  very  near  to  him. 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  meant?" 


432  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  like  me  in  that  way?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  you  care  about  me?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  said  you  willed  me  to  come  out  to  Constantinople. 
Was  it  for  that  reason?  " 

She  hesitated.  She  had  an  instinctive  understanding  of 
men,  but  she  knew  that,  in  one  way,  Dion  was  not  an  ordinary 
man;  and  even  if  he  had  been,  the  catastrophe  in  his  life  might 
well  have  put  him  for  the  time  beyond  the  limits  of  her  ex- 
perience, wide  though  they  were. 

"  No,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  I  didn't  like  you  in  that  way 
till  I  met  you  in  the  street,  and  saw  what  she  had  done  to 
you." 

"  Then  it  was  only  pity?  " 

"Was  it?     I  knew  your  value  in  England." 

She  paused,  then  added,  in  an  almost  light  and  much  more 
impersonal  voice: 

"  I  think  I  may  say  that  I'm  a  connoisseur  of  values.  And 
I  hate  to  see  a  good  thing  flung  away." 

"  I'm  not  a  good  thing.  Perhaps  I  might  have  become  one. 
I  believe  I  was  on  the  way  to  becoming  worth  something. 
But  now  I'm  nothing,  and  I  wish  to  be  nothing." 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  be  anything  but  what  you  are." 

"  Once  you  telegraphed  to  me  — '  May  Allah  have  you  in 
His  hand.' >; 

"  I  remember." 

"  It's  turned  out  differently,"  he  said,  almost  with  brutality. 

"  We  don't  know  that.     You  came  back." 

"  Yes.  I  was  kept  safe  for  a  very  good  reason.  I  had  to 
kill  my  child.  I've  accomplished  that  mission,  and  now,  per- 
haps, Allah  will  let  me  alone." 

She  could  not  see  his  face  or  the  expression  in  his  eyes 
clearly,  but  now  she  saw  his  body  move  sharply.  It  twisted 
to  the  right  and  back  again.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  took 
his  listlessly,  almost  as  she  had  taken  it  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's 
drawing-room  when  she  had  met  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  Your  hand  is  like  fire,"  he  whispered. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  ice?  "  she  whispered  back,  huskily. 

"  Once  I  tried  to  take  my  hand  away  from  yours." 

"  Try  to  take  it  away  now,  if  you  wish  to." 

As  she  spoke  she  closed  her  hand  tenaciously  upon  his.  Her 
little  fingers  felt  almost  like  steel  on  his  hand,  and  he  thought 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  433 

of  the  current  of  the  Bosporus  which  had  pulled  at  his  swim- 
ming body. 

To  be  taken  and  swept  away !  That  at  least  would  be  better 
than  drifting,  better  than  death  in  the  form  of  life,  better  than 
slinking  in  loneliness  to  watch  the  doings  of  others. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  take  it  away,"  he  said. 

And  with  the  words  mentally  he  bade  an  eternal  farewell 
to  Rosamund  and  to  all  the  aspirations  of  his  youth.  From 
her  and  from  them  he  turned  away  to  follow  the  gleam  of  the 
torch.  It  flickered  through  the  darkness;  it  wavered;  it  waited 
—  for  him.  He  had  tried  the  life  of  wisdom,  and  it  had  cast 
him  out;  perhaps  there  was  a  place  for  him  in  the  unwise  life. 
He  felt  spiritually  exhausted;  but  there  was  within  him  a 
physical  fever  which  answered  to  the  fever  in  the  hand  which 
had  closed  on  his. 

"  Let  the  spirit  die,"  he  thought,  "  that  the  body  may  live!  " 

He  put  one  arm  round  his  companion. 

"  If  you  want  me "  he  whispered,  on  a  deep  breath. 

His  voice  died  away  in  the  darkness  between  the  giant 
cypresses,  those  trees  which  watch  over  the  dead  in  the  land 
of  the  Turk. 

She  had  said  once  that  the  human  being  can  hurt  God. 

Obscurely  he  wished  to  do  that. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MRS.  CLARKE  looked  up  from  a  letter  written  in  a 
large  boyish  hand  which  had  just  been  brought  out 
on  to  the  terrace  of  the  fountain  by  the  butler. 

"Jimmy  will  be  here  on  Thursday  —  that  is,  in  Con- 
stantinople. The  train  ought  to  be  in  early  in  the  morning." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  Dion  for  a  moment;  then  she  looked 
down  again  at  the  letter  from  Eton. 

"  He's  in  a  high  state  of  spirits  at  the  prospect  of  the  journey. 
But  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  had  him  out;  perhaps  I  ought 
to  have  gone  to  England  for  his  holidays." 

"  Do  you  mean  because  of  me?  "  said  Dion. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  cricket,"  she  replied  impassively. 

He  was  silent.     After  a  moment  she  continued: 

"  There  are  no  suitable  companions  for  him  out  here.  I  wish 
the  Ingletons  had  a  son.  Of  course  there  is  riding,  swimming, 


434  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

boating,  and  we  can  make  excursions.  You'll  be  good  to  him, 
won't  you?  " 

She  folded  the  letter  up  and  put  it  into  the  envelope. 

"  I  always  keep  all  Jimmy's  letters,"  she  said. 

"Look  here!"  Dion  said,  in  a  hard  voice.  "I  think  I'd 
better  go." 

"Why?" 

"  You  know  why." 

"  Have  I  asked  you  to  go?  " 

"  No,  but  I  think  I  shall  clear  out.  I  don't  feel  like  acting 
a  part  to  a  boy.  I've  never  done  such  a  thing,  and  it  isn't  at  all 
the  sort  of  thing  I  could  do  well." 

"  There  will  be  no  need  to  act  a  part.  Be  with  Jimmy  as 
you  were  in  London." 

"  Look  at  me !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  intense  bitterness.  "  Am 
I  the  man  I  was  in  London?  " 

"  If  you  are  careful  and  reasonable,  Jimmy  won't  notice  any 
difference.  Hero  worship  doesn't  look  at  things  through  a  mi- 
croscope. Jimmy's  got  his  idea  of  you.  It  will  be  your  fault 
if  he  changes  it." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  I  should  be  here  during  the  holidays?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  he  said,  almost  brutally. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  you  answered  for  me  before  you  knew  where  I 
should  be." 

He  got  up  from  the  straw  chair  on  which  he  was  sitting,  al- 
most as  if  he  meant  to  go  away  from  her  and  from  Buyukderer 
at  once. 

"  Dion,  you  mustn't  go,"  she  said  inflexibly.  "  I  can't  let 
you.  For  if  you  go,  you  will  never  come  back." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  I  do  know  it." 

They  looked  at  each  other  across  the  fountain;  his  eyes  fell 
at  last  almost  guiltily  before  her  steady  glance. 

"  And  you  know  it  too,"  she  said. 

"  I  may  go,  nevertheless.     Who  is  to  prevent  me?  " 

She  got  up,  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  fountain,  and  put 
her  hand  behind  his  arm,  after  a  quick  glance  round  to  make 
sure  that  no  eyes  were  watching  her.  She  pushed  her  hand 
down  gently  and  held  his  wrist. 

"Do  you  realize  how  badly  you  sometimes  treat  me?"  she 
said. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  435 

"  Yes." 

She  pulled  his  soft  cuff  with  her  little  fingers. 

"  I  do  realize  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.     I  have  to  do  it." 

"  If  I  didn't  know  that  I  should  mind  it  much  more,"  she 
said. 

"  I  never  thought  I  had  it  in  me  to  treat  a  woman  as  I  some- 
times treat  you.  I  used  —  to  be  so  different." 

"  You  were  too  much  the  other  way.  But  yours  is  a  nature 
of  extremes.  That's  partly  why  I " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Then  you  don't  resent  my  beastliness  to  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  permanently.  Sometimes  you  are  nice  to  me.  But  if 
you  were  ever  to  treat  me  badly  when  Jimmy  was  with  me,  I 
don't  think  I  could  ever  forgive  you." 

"  I  dread  his  coming,"  said  Dion.  "  I  had  much  better  go. 
If  you  don't  let  me  go,  you  may  regret  it." 

In  saying  that  he  acknowledged  the  power  she  had  already 
obtained  over  him,  a  power  from  which  he  did  not  feel  sure  that 
he  could  break  away,  although  he  was  acutely  aware  of  it  and 
sometimes  almost  bitterly  resented  it.  Mrs.  Clarke  knew  very 
well  that  most  men  can  only  be  held  when  they  do  not  know 
that  they  are  held,  but  Dion,  in  his  present  condition,  was  not 
like  any  other  man  she  had  known.  More  than  once  in  the 
earliest  stages  of  their  intimacy  she  had  had  really  to  fight  to 
keep  him  near  her,  and  so  he  knew  how  arbitrary  she  could  be 
when  her  nature  was  roused. 

Sometimes  he  hated  her  with  intensity,  for  she  had  set  her- 
self to  destroy  the  fabric  of  his  spirit,  which  not  even  Rosa- 
mund had  been  able  entirely  to  destroy  by  her  desertion  of 
him.  Sometimes  he  felt  a  sort  of  ugly  love  of  her,  because  she 
was  the  agent  through  whom  he  was  learning  to  get  rid  of  all 
that  Rosamund  had  most  prized  in  him.  It  was  as  if  he  called 
out  to  her,  "  Help  me  to  pull  down,  to  tear  down,  all  that  I 
built  up  in  the  long  years  till  not  one  stone  is  left  upon  another. 
What  I  built  up  was  despised  and  rejected.  I  won't  look  upon 
it  any  more.  I'll  raze  it  to  the  ground.  But  I  can't  do  that 
alone.  Come,  you,  and  help  me."  And  she  came  and  she 
helped  in  the  work  of  destruction,  and  in  an  ugly,  horrible  way 
he  loved  her  for  it  sometimes,  as  a  criminal  might  love  an  as- 
sistant in  his  crime. 

But  from  such  a  type  of  love  there  are  terrible  reactions. 
During  those  reactions  Dion  had  treated  Cynthia  Clarke 
abominably  sometimes,  showing  the  hatred  which  alternated 


436  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

with  his  ugly  love,  if  love  it  could  properly  be  called.  He 
hated  her  in  such  moments  for  the  fierce  lure  she  had  for  the 
senses,  a  lure  which  he  felt  more  and  more  strongly  as  he  left 
farther  behind  him  the  old  life  of  sane  enjoyments  and  of  the 
wisdom  which  walks  with  restraint;  he  hated  her  for  the  per- 
versity which  he  was  increasingly  conscious  of  as  he  came  to 
know  her  more  intimately;  he  hated  her  because  he  had  so  much 
loved  the  woman  who  would  not  make  a  friend  of  her;  he  hated 
her  because  he  knew  that  she  was  drawing  him  into  a  path 
which  led  into  the  center  of  a  maze,  the  maze  of  hypocrisy. 

Hitherto  Dion  had  been  essentially  honest  and  truthful, 
what  men  call  "  open  and  above-board."  He  had  walked  clear- 
eyed  in  the  light;  he  had  had  nothing  dirty  to  hide;  what  his 
relations  with  others  had  seemed  to  be  that  they  had  actually 
been.  But  since  that  first  night  in  the  pavilion  Cynthia  Clarke 
had  taught  him  very  thoroughly  the  hypocrisy  a  man  owes  to 
the  woman  with  whom  he  has  a  secret  liaison. 

He  still  believed  that  till  that  night  she  had  been  what  the 
world  calls  "  a  straight  woman."  She  did  not  ape  a  rigid 
morality  for  once  betrayed  by  passion,  or  pretend  to  any  re- 
ligious scruples,  or  show  any  fears  of  an  eventual  punishment 
held  in  reserve  for  all  sinners  by  an  implacable  Power;  she  did 
not,  when  Dion  was  brutal  to  her,  ever  reproach  him  with  hav- 
ing made  of  her  a  wicked  or  even  a  light  woman.  But  she 
made  him  feel  by  innumerable  hints  and  subtleties  that  for  him 
she  had  exchanged  a  safe  life  for  a  life  that  was  beset  with  dan- 
ger, the  smiled-on  life  of  a  not  too  conventional  virtue  for  some- 
thing very  different.  She  seemed  sometimes  uneasy  in  her  love, 
as  if  such  a  love  were  an  error  new  to  her  experience. 

Jimmy  \vas  her  chief  weapon  against  Dion's  natural  sin- 
cerity. Dion  realized  that  she  was  passionately  attached  to 
her  boy,  and  that  she  would  make  almost  any  sacrifice  rather 
than  lose  his  respect  and  affection.  Nevertheless,  she  was  ready 
to  take  great  risks.  The  risks  she  was  not  prepared  to  take 
were  the  smaller  risks.  And  in  connexion  with  them  her  call 
for  hypocrisy  was  incessant.  If  Dion  ever  tried  to  resist  her  de- 
mands for  small  lies  and  petty  deceptions,  she  would  look  at  him, 
and  say  huskily: 

"  I  have  to  do  these  things  now  because  of  Jimmy.  No  one 
must  ever  have  the  least  suspicion  of  what  we  are  to  each  other, 
or  some  day  Jimmy  might  get  to  know  of  it.  It  isn't  my  hus- 
band I'm  afraid  of,  it's  Jimmy." 

If  Dion  had  been  by  nature  a  suspicious  man,  or  if  he  had 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  437 

had  a  wider  experience  with  women,  Mrs.  Clarke's  remarkable 
ingenuity  in  hypocrisy  would  almost  certainly  have  suggested 
to  him  that  she  was  no  novice  in  the  life  of  deception.  Her 
appearance  of  frankness,  even  of  bluntness,  was  admirable.  To 
every  one  she  presented  herself  as  a  woman  of  strong  will 
and  unconventional  temperament  who  took  her  own  way  openly, 
having  nothing  to  conceal,  and  therefore  nothing  to  fear.  She 
made  a  feature  of  her  friendship  with  the  tragic  Englishman; 
she  even  dwelt  upon  it  and  paraded  it  for  the  benefit  of  the 
gossiping  world  on  the  Bosporus;  but  that  pretense  of  blunt 
and  Platonic  friendship  was  the  cloud  with  which  she  con- 
cealed the  fire  of  their  illicit  relation.  The  trip  on  the  "  Leyla  " 
to  Brusa  had  tortured  Dion.  Since  the  episode  in  the  pa- 
vilion a  more  refined  torment  had  been  his.  Mrs.  Clarke  had 
not  allowed  him  to  escape  from  the  social  ties  which  were  so 
hateful  to  him.  She  had  made  him  understand  that  he  must 
go  among  her  acquaintances  now  and  then,  that  he  must  take 
a  certain  part  in  the  summer  life  of  Therapia  and  Buyukderer, 
that  the  trip  to  Brusa  had  been  only  a  beginning.  More  than 
once  he  had  tried  to  break  away,  but  he  had  not  succeeded 
in  his  effort.  Her  will  had  been  too  strong  for  his,  not  merely 
because  she  did  not  fear  at  moments  to  be  fierce  and  deter- 
mined, but  because  behind  her  fierceness  and  determination 
was  an  unuttered  plea  which  his  not  dead  chivalry  heard; 
"  For  you  I  have  become  what  I  was  falsely  accused  of  being 
in  London."  He  remembered  the  wonderful  fight  she  had  made 
then;  often  her  look  and  manner,  when  they  were  alone  to- 
gether, implied,  "  I  couldn't  make  such  a  fight  now."  She 
never  said  that,  but  she  made  him  float  in  an  atmosphere  of 
that  suggestion. 

He  believed  that  she  loved  him.  Sometimes  he  compared 
her  love  with  the  affection  which  Rosamund  had  given  him, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  his  not  very  experienced  heart  that  per- 
haps intense  love  can  only  show  itself  by  something  akin  to 
degradation,  by  enticements  which  a  genuinely  pure  nature 
could  never  descend  to,  by  perversities  which  the  grand  sim- 
plicity and  wholesomeness  of  goodness  would  certainly  abhor. 
Then  a  distortion  of  love  presented  itself  to  his  tragic  inves- 
tigation as  the  only  love  that  was  real,  and  good  and  evil  lost 
for  him  their  true  significance.  He  had  said  to  himself,  "  Let 
the  spirit  die  that  the  body  may  live."  He  had  wished,  he 
still  wished,  to  pull  down.  He  had  a  sort  of  demented  desire 
for  ruins  and  dust.  But  he  longed  for  action  on  the  grand 


438  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

scale.  Small  secrecies,  trickeries,  tiptoeing  through  the  maze  — 
all  these  things  revolted  that  part  of  his  nature  which  was, 
perhaps,  unchangeable.  They  seemed  to  him  unmanly.  In 
his  present  condition  he  could  quite  easily  have  lain  down  in 
the  sink  of  Pera's  iniquity,  careless  whether  any  one  knew;  but 
it  was  horribly  difficult  to  him  to  dine  with  the  Ingletons  and 
Vane  at  the  Villa  Hafiz,  to  say  "  Good  night "  to  Mrs.  Clarke 
before  them,  to  go  away,  leaving  them  in  the  villa,  and  then, 
very  late,  to  sneak  back,  with  a  key,  to  the  garden  gate,  when 
all  the  servants  were  in  bed,  and  to  creep  up,  like  a  thief,  to 
the  pavilion.  Some  men  would  have  enjoyed  all  the  small  de- 
ceptions, would  have  thought  them  good  fun,  would  have  found 
that  they  added  a  sharp  zest  to  the  pursuit  of  a  woman.  Dion 
loathed  them. 

And  now  he  was  confronted  with  something  he  was  going 
to  loathe  far  more,  something  which  would  call  for  more  sus- 
tained and  elaborate  deception  than  any  he  had  practised  yet. 
He  feared  the  eyes  of  an  English  boy  more  than  he  feared  the 
eyes  of  the  diplomats  and  the  cosmopolitans  of  varying  types 
who  were  gathered  on  the  Bosporus  during  the  months  of  heat. 
He  detested  the  idea  of  playing  a  part  to  a  boy.  How  could  a 
mother  lay  plots  to  deceive  her  son?  And  yet  Mrs.  Clarke 
adored  Jimmy. 

Rosamund  and  Robin  started  up  in  his  mind.  He  saw 
them  before  him  as  he  had  seen  them  one  night  in  Westmin- 
ster when  Rosamund  had  been  singing  to  Robin.  Ah,  she  had 
been  a  cruel,  a  terribly  cruel,  wife,  but  she  had  been  an  ideal 
mother!  He  saw  her  head  bent  over  her  child,  the  curve  of  her 
arm  round  his  little  body.  A  sensation  of  sickness  came  upon 
him,  of  soul-nausea;  and  again  he  thought,  "  I  must  get  away." 

The  night  before  the  day  on  which  Jimmy  was  due  to  ar- 
rive, Mrs.  Clarke  was  in  Constantinople.  She  had  gone  there 
to  meet  Jimmy,  and  had  started  early  in  the  morning,  leaving 
Dion  at  Buyukderer.  When  she  was  gone  he  took  the  Al- 
banian's boat  and  went  out  on  the  Bosporus  for  a  row.  The 
man  and  he  were  both  at  the  oars,  and  pulled  out  from  the  bay. 
When  they  had  gone  some  distance  —  they  had  been  rowing  for 
perhaps  ten  minutes  —  the  man  asked : 

"Oil  allons-nous,  S ignore ?" 

"  Vers  Constantinople,"  replied  Dion. 

"  Bene !  "  replied  the  man. 

That  night  Mrs.  Clarke  had  just  finished  dinner  when  a 
waiter  tapped  at  her  sitting-room  door. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  439 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

"  A  gentleman  asks  if  he  can  see  you,  Madame." 

"  A  gentleman?     Have  you  got  his  card?  " 

"No,  Madame;  he  gave  no  card." 

"What  is  he  like?" 

"  He  is  English,  I  think,  very  thin  and  very  brown.  He 
looks  very  strong." 

The  waiter  paused,  then  added : 

"  He  has  a  hungry  look." 

Mrs.  Clarke  stared  at  the  man  with  her  very  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Go  down  and  ask  him  to  wait." 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

The  man  went  out.  When  he  had  shut  the  door  Mrs.  Clarke 
called : 

"Sonia!" 

Her  raised  voice  was  rather  harsh. 

The  bedroom  door  was  opened,  and  the  Russian  maid  looked 
into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Sonia,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  rapidly  in  French,  "  some  one 
—  a  man  —  has  called  and  asked  for  me.  He's  waiting  in  the 
hall.  Go  down  and  see  who  it  is.  If  it's  Mr.  Leith  you  can 
bring  him  up." 

"  And  if  it  is  not  Monsieur  Leith?  " 

"  Come  back  and  tell  me  who  it  is." 

The  maid  came  out  of  the  bedroom,  shut  the  door,  crossed 
the  sitting-room  rather  heavily  on  flat  feet,  and  went  out  on  to 
the  landing. 

"  Shut  the  door!  "  Mrs.  Clarke  called  after  her. 

When  the  sitting-room  door  was  shut  she  sat  waiting  with 
her  forehead  drawn  to  a  frown.  She  did  not  move  till  the 
sitting-room  door  was  opened  by  the  maid  and  a  man  walked 
in. 

"  Monsieur  Leith,"  said  the  maid. 

And  she  disappeared. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  Why  have  you 
come  to  Pera?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you." 

"  How  tired  you  look!     Have  you  had  dinner?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  want  it." 

"  Did  you  come  by  steamer?  " 

"  No,  I  rowed  down." 

"All  the  way?" 

He  nodded. 


440  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  V\*here  are  you  staying?  " 

"  I  haven't  decided  yet  where  I  shall  stay.  Not  here,  of 
course." 

"  Of  course  not.     Dion,  sit  down." 

He  sat  down  heavily. 

"If  you  haven't  decided  about  an  hotel,  where  is  your  lug- 
gage?" 

"  I  haven't  brought  any." 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  distressed  eyes  questioned  him. 

"  I  started  out  for  a  row.  The  current  set  towards  Constan- 
tinople, so  I  came  here." 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said. 

But  she  did  not  look  glad. 

"  We  can  spend  a  quiet  evening  together,"  she  added  non- 
chalantly. 

"  I  didn't  come  for  that,"  he  said. 

He  began  to  get  up,  but  she  put  one  hand  on  him. 

"  Do  sit  still.  What  is  it,  then  ?  Whatever  it  is,  tell  me 
quietly." 

He  yielded  to  her  soft  but  very  imperative  touch,  and  sat 
back  in  his  chair. 

"Now,  what  is  it?" 

"I'm  sure  you  know.     It's  Jimmy." 

She  lowered  her  eyelids,  and  her  pale  forehead  puckered. 

"Jimmy!     What  about  Jimmy?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  at  Buyukderer  while  he's  with  you." 

"  And  you  have  rowed  down  all  the  way  from  Buyukderer 
to  Constantinople,  without  even  a  brush  and  comb,  to  tell  me 
that!" 

"  I  told  you  at  Buyukderer." 

"  And  we  decided  that  it  would  be  much  jollier  for  Jimmy 
to  have  you  there  for  his  holidays.  I  depend  upon  you  to  make 
things  tolerable  for  Jimmy.  You  know  how  few  people  there 
are  near  us  who  would  trouble  themselves  about  a  boy.  You 
will  be  my  stand-by  with  Jimmy  all  through  his  holidays." 

She  spoke  serenely,  even  cheerfully,  but  there  was  a  decisive 
sound  in  her  voice,  and  the  eyes  fixed  upon  him  were  full  of 
determination. 

"  I  can't  understand  how  you  can  be  willing  to  act  a  lie  to 
your  own  boy,  especially  when  you  care  for  him  so  much,"  said 
Dion,  almost  violently. 

"  I  shall  not  act  a  lie." 

"  But  you  will." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  441 

"  Sometimes  you  are  horribly  morbid,"  she  said  coldly. 

"Morbid!  Because  I  want  to  keep  a  young  schoolboy  out 
of " 

"Take  care,  Dion!  "  she  interrupted  harshly. 

"  If  you  —  you  don't  really  love  Jimmy,"  he  said. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  say  that." 

"  I  will  say  it.     It's  true." 

And  he  repeated  with  a  cruelly  deliberate  emphasis: 

"  You  don't  really  love  Jimmy." 

Her  white  face  was  suddenly  flooded  with  red,  which  even 
covered  her  forehead  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  She  put  up  one 
hand  with  violence  and  tried  to  strike  Dion  on  the  mouth.  He 
caught  her  wrist. 

"  Be  quiet!  "  he  said  roughly. 

Gripping  her  wrist  with  his  hard,  muscular  brown  fingers  he 
repeated : 

"  You  don't  love  Jimmy." 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  hate  you?  " 

"  I  don't  care.     I  don't  care  what  happens  to  me." 

She  sat  looking  down.  The  red  began  to  fade  out  of  her 
face.  Presently  she  curled  her  fingers  inwards  against  his  palm 
and  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel  with  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  loosened  his  grip  on  her;  but  now  she  caught  and  held 
his  hand. 

"  I  do  love  Jimmy,  and  you  know  it  when  you  aren't  mad. 
But  I  care  for  you,  too,  and  I  am  not  going  to  lose  you.  If 
you  went  away  while  Jimmy  was  out  here  I  should  never  see 
you  again.  You  would  disappear.  Perhaps  you  would  cross 
over  to  Asia." 

Her  great  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  upon  him. 

"  Ah,  you  have  thought  of  that!  "  she  said,  almost  in  a  whis- 
per. 

He  was  silent. 

"  Women  would  get  hold  of  you.  You  would  sink;  you 
would  be  ruined,  destroyed.  I  know!  " 

"  If  I  were  it  wouldn't  matter." 

"  To  me  it  would.  I  can't  risk  it.  I  am  not  going  to  risk 
it." 

Dion  leaned  forward.     His  brown  face  was  twitching. 

"  Suppose  you  had  to  choose  between  Jimmy  and  me !  " 

He  was  thinking  of  Robin  and  Rosamund.  A  child  had  con- 
quered him  once.  Now  again  a  child  —  for  Jimmy  was  no 


442  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

more  than  a  child  as  yet,  although  he  thought  himself  impor- 
tant and  almost  a  young  man  —  intruded  into  his  life  with  a 
woman. 

"  I  shall  not  have  to  choose.  But  I  have  told  you  that  a 
child  is  not  enough  for  the  happiness  of  a  woman  like  me. 
You  know  what  I  am,  and  you  must  know  I  am  speaking  the 
truth." 

"Did  you  love  your  husband?"  he  asked,  staring  into  her 
eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  without  even  a  second  of  hesitation. 
"  I  did  till  he  suspected  me." 

"  And  then " 

"  Not  after  that,"  she  said  grimly. 

"  I  wonder  he  let  you  do  all  you  did." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

She  let  his  hand  go. 

"  I  would  never  have  let  you  go  about  with  other  men,  how- 
ever innocently.  I  thought  about  that  at  your  trial." 

"  I  should  never  let  any  one  interfere  with  my  freedom  of 
action.  If  a  man  loves  me  I  expect  him  to  trust  me." 

"  You  don't  trust  me." 

"  Sometimes  you  almost  hate  me.     I  know  that." 

"  Sometimes  I  hate  everybody,  myself  most  of  all.  But  I 
should  miss  you.  You  are  the  only  woman  in  all  the  world  who 
wants  me  now." 

Suddenly  a  thought  of  his  mother  intruded  into  his  mind, 
and  he  added: 

"  Wants  me  as  a  lover." 

She  got  up  quickly,  almost  impulsively,  and  went  close  to  him. 

"  Yes,  I  want  you,  I  want  you  as  a  lover,  and  I  can't  let  you 
go.  That  is  why  I  ask  you,  I  beg  you,  to  stay  with  me  while 
Jimmy's  here." 

She  leaned  against  him,  and  put  her  small  hands  on  his 
shoulders. 

"  How  can  a  child  understand  the  needs  of  a  woman  like  me 
and  of  a  man  like  you?  How  can  he  look  into  our  hearts  or 
read  the  secrets  of  our  natures  —  secrets  which  we  can't  help 
having?  You  hate  what  you  call  deceiving  him.  But  he  will 
never  think  about  it.  A  boy  of  Jimmy's  age  never  thinks  about 
his  mother  in  that  way." 

"  I  know.     That's  just  it!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

But  he  did  not  explain.     Perhaps  instinctively  he  felt  that 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  443 

her  natural  subtlety  could  not  be  in  accord  with  his  natural  sin- 
cerity, felt  that  in  discussing  certain  subjects  they  talked  in 
different  languages.  She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  I  need  the  two  lives,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice.  "  I 
need  Jimmy  and  I  need  you.  Is  it  so  very  wonderful?  Often 
when  a  woman  who  isn't  old  loses  her  husband  and  is  left 
with  her  child  people  say,  '  It's  all  right  for  her.  She  has  got 
her  child.'  And  so  she's  dismissed  to  her  motherhood,  as  if 
that  must  be  quite  enough  for  her.  Dion,  Dion,  the  world 
doesn't  know,  or  doesn't  care,  how  women  suffer.  Women  don't 
speak  about  such  things.  But  I  am  telling  you  because  I  don't 
want  to  have  secrets  from  you.  I  have  suffered.  Perhaps  I 
have  some  pride  in  me.  Anyhow,  I  don't  care  to  go  about  com- 
plaining. You  know  that.  You  must  have  found  that  out  in 
London.  I  keep  my  secrets,  but  not  from  you." 

She  put  her  white  cheek  against  his  brown  one. 

"  It's  only  the  two  lives  joined  together  that  make  life  com- 
plete for  a  woman  who  is  complete,  who  isn't  lopsided,  lacking 
in  something  essential,  something  that  nature  intends.  I  am 
a  complete  woman,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it.  Do  you  think 
I  ought  to  be  ?  " 

She  sighed  against  his  cheek. 

"  You  are  a  courageous  woman,"  he  said;  "  I  do  know  that." 

"  Don't  you  test  my  courage.  Perhaps  I'm  getting  tired  of 
being  courageous." 

She  put  her  thin  lips  against  his. 

"  It's  acting  —  deception  I  hate,"  he  murmured.  "  With  a 
boy  especially  I  like  always  to  be  quite  open." 

Again  he  thought  of  Robin  and  of  his  old  ideal  of  a  father's 
relation  to  his  son;  he  thought  of  his  preparation  to  be  worthy 
of  fatherhood,  worthy  to  guide  a  boy's  steps  in  the  path  to- 
wards a  noble  manhood.  And  a  terrible  sense  of  the  irony  of 
life  almost  overcame  him.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  Creator  laughing  in  darkness  at  the  aspirations 
of  men;  for  a  moment  he  was  beset  by  the  awful  conviction  that 
the  world  is  ruled  by  a  malign  Deity. 

"  All  the  time  Jimmy  is  at  Buyukderer  we'll  just  be  friends," 
said  the  husky  voice  against  his  cheek. 

The  sophistry  of  her  remark  struck  home  to  him,  but  he  made 
no  comment  upon  it. 

"  There  are  white  deceptions,"  she  continued,  "  and  black 
deceptions,  as  there  are  white  and  black  lies.  Whom  are  we 
hurting,  you  and  I  ?  " 


444  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Whom  are  we  hurting?"  he  said,  releasing  himself  from 
her. 

And  he  thought  of  God  in  a  different  way  —  in  Rosamund's 
way. 

"Yes?" 

He  looked  at  her  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak,  but  he  said 
nothing.  He  felt  that  if  he  answered  she  would  not  under- 
stand, and  her  face  made  him  doubtful.  Which  view  of  life 
was  the  right  one,  Rosamund's  or  Cynthia  Clarke's?  Rosa- 
mund had  been  pitiless  to  him  and  Cynthia  Clarke  was  merci- 
ful. She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  when  he  was  in  misery; 
she  wanted  him  despite  the  tragedy  that  was  his  perpetual  com- 
panion. Perhaps  her  view  of  life  was  right.  It  was  a  good 
working  view,  anyhow,  and  was  no  doubt  held  by  many  people. 

"  We  can  base  our  lives  on  truth,"  she  continued,  as  he  said 
nothing.  "  On  being  true  to  ourselves.  That  is  the  great  truth. 
But  we  can't  always  tell  it  to  all  the  casual  people  about  us, 
or  even  to  those  who  are  closely  in  our  lives,  as  for  instance 
Jimmy  is  in  mine.  They  wouldn't  understand.  But  some  day 
Jimmy  will  be  able  to  understand." 

"  Do  you  mean " 

"I  mean  just  this:  if  Jimmy  were  twenty-one  I  would  tell 
him  everything." 

He  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  which  never  fell  before  the 
eyes  of  another. 

"  I  believe  you  would,"  he  said. 

She  continued  looking  at  him,  as  if  tranquilly  waiting  for 
something. 

"  I'll  —  I'll  go  back  to  Buyukderer,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  his  contrition  for  the  attack  which  he  had  made  upon 
the  honor  of  his  wife  at  his  mother's  instigation,  Beadon 
Clarke  had  given  up  all  claims  on  his  boy's  time.     Actu- 
ally, though  not  legally,  Mrs.  Clarke  had  complete  control  over 
Jimmy.     He  spent  all  his  holidays  with  her,  and  seldom  saw 
his  father,  who  was  still  attached  to  the  British  Embassy  in 
Madrid.     He  had  never  been  allowed  to  read  any  reports  of 
the  famous  case  which  had  been  fought  out  between  his  parents, 
and  was  understood  to  think  that  his  father  and  mother  had, 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  445 

for  some  mysterious  reason,  found  it  impossible  to  "  hit  it  off 
together,"  and  had  therefore  decided  to  live  apart.  He  was 
now  rather  vaguely  fond  of  his  father,  whom  he  considered 
to  be  "  quite  a  good  sort,"  but  he  was  devoted  to  his  mother. 
Mrs.  Clarke's  peculiar  self-possession  and  remarkably  strong 
will  made  a  great  impression  on  Jimmy.  "  It's  jolly  difficult 
to  score  my  mater  off,  I  can  tell  you,"  he  occasionally  remarked 
to  his  more  intimate  chums  at  school.  He  admired  her  ap- 
pearance, her  elegance,  and  the  charm  of  her  way  of  living, 
which  he  called  "doing  herself  jolly  well";  even  her  unsmil- 
ing face  and  characteristic  lack  of  what  is  generally  called 
vivacity  won  his  approval.  "  My  mater's  above  all  that  silly 
gushing  and  giggling  so  many  women  go  in  for,  don't  you 
know,"  was  his  verdict  on  Mrs.  Clarke's  usually  serious  de- 
meanor. Into  her  gravity  boyishly  he  read  dignity  of  charac- 
ter, and  in  his  estimation  of  her  he  set  her  very  high.  Although 
something  of  a  pickle,  and  by  nature  rather  reckless  and  in- 
clined to  be  wild,  he  was  swiftly  obedient  to  his  mother,  partly 
perhaps  because,  understanding  young  males  as  well  as  she  un- 
derstood male  beings  of  all  ages,  she  very  seldom  drew  the  reins 
tight.  He  knew  very  well  that  she  loved  him. 

On  the  evening  of  his  arrival  at  Buyukderer  for  the  summer 
holidays  Jimmy  had  a  confidential  talk  with  his  mother  about 
"  Mr.  Leith,"  whom  he  had  not  yet  seen,  but  about  whom  he 
had  been  making  many  anxious  inquiries. 

"  I'll  tell  you  to-night,"  his  mother  had  replied.  And  after 
dinner  she  fulfilled  her  promise. 

"  You'll  see  Mr.  Leith  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I  should  rather  think  so!  "  returned  Jimmy,  in  an 
injured  voice.  "  Where  is  he?  " 

"  He's  living  in  rooms  in  the  house  of  a  Greek  not  far  from 
here." 

"  I  thought  he  was  in  the  hotel.  I  say,  mater,  can't  I  have 
a  cigarette  just  for  once?  " 

"  Yes,  you  may,  just  for  once." 

Jimmy  approached  the  cigarette  box  with  the  air  of  a  non- 
chalant conqueror.  As  he  opened  it  with  an  apparently  prac- 
tised forefinger  he  remarked: 

"  Well,  mater?  " 

"  He's  left  the  hotel.  You  know,  Jimmy,  Mr.  Leith  has  had 
great  misfortunes." 

Jimmy  had  heard  of  the  gun  accident  and  its  terrible  result, 
and  he  now  looked  very  grave. 


446  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"I  know  —  poor  chap!  "  he  observed.  "But  it  wasn't  his 
fault.  It  was  the  little  brute  of  a  pony.  Every  one  knows  that. 
It  was  rotten  bad  luck,  but  who  would  be  down  on  a  fellow 
for  bad  luck?" 

"  Exactly.  But  it's  changed  Mr.  Leith's  life.  His  wife  has 
left  him.  He's  given  up  his  business,  and  is,  consequently,  less 
well  off  than  he  was.  But  this  isn't  all." 

Jimmy  tenderly  struck  a  match,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and,  with 
half-closed  eyes,  blew  forth  in  a  professional  manner  a  delicate 
cloud  of  smoke.  He  was  feeling  good  all  over. 

"First-rate  cigarettes!"  he  remarked.  "The  very  best! 
Yes,  mater?" 

"  He's  rather  badly  broken  up." 

"No  wonder!  "  said  Jimmy,  with  discrimination. 

"  You'll  find  him  a  good  deal  changed.  Sometimes  he's 
moody  and  even  bad-tempered,  poor  fellow,  and  he's  fearfully 
sensitive.  I'm  trying  my  best  to  buck  him  up." 

"  Good  for  you,  mater!  He's  our  friend.  We're  bound  tc 
stand  by  him." 

"  And  that's  exactly  w'hat  I'm  trying  to  do.  When  he's  a  lit' 
tie  difficult,  doesn't  take  things  quite  as  one  means  them  — 
you  know?  " 

"Rather!     Do  I?" 

"  I  put  it  down  to  all  the  trouble  he's  been  through.  I 
never  resent  it.  Now  I  ought  really  to  have  got  out  a  holiday 
tutor  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  after  I've  swotted  my  head  off  all  these  months ! 
A  chap  needs  some  rest  if  he's  to  do  himself  justice,  hang  it, 
mater,  now!  " 

"  I  know  all  about  that!  " 

She  looked  at  him  shrewdly,  and  he  smiled  on  one  side  of 
his  mouth. 

"Goon,  mater!  " 

"  But  having  Mr.  Leith  here  I  thought  I  wouldn't  do  that. 
Mr.  Leith's  awfully  fond  of  boys,  and  it  seemed  to  me  you  might 
do  him  more  good  than  any  one  else  could." 

"  Well,  I'm  blowed!     D'you  really  think  so?  " 

Jimmy  came  over  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  blowing 
rings  of  smoke  cleverly  over  her  lovely  little  head. 

"  Put  me  up  to  it,  mater,  there's  a  good  girl.  I'm  awfully 
keen  on  Mr.  Leith,  as  you  know.  He's  got  the  biggest  biceps  I 
ever  saw,  and  I'm  jolly  sorry  for  him.  What  can  I  do?  Put 
me  up  to  it." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  447 

And  Mrs.  Clarke  proceeded  to  put  Jimmy  up  to  it.  She 
had  told  Dion  that  Jimmy  wouldn't  see  the  difference  in  him. 
Now  she  carefully  prepared  Jimmy  to  face  that  difference,  and 
gave  him  his  cue  for  the  part  she  wished  him  to  play.  Jimmy 
felt  very  important  as  he  listened  to  her  explanations,  trifling 
seriously  with  his  cigarette,  and  looking  very  worldly-wise. 

"  I  twig!  "  he  interrupted  occasionally,  nodding  his  round 
young  head,  which  was  covered  with  densely  thick,  rather  coarse 
hair.  "  I've  got  it." 

And  he  went  off  to  bed  very  seriously,  resolved  to  take  Mr. 
Leith  in  hand  and  to  do  his  level  best  for  him. 

So  it  was  that  when  Dion  and  he  met  next  day  he  was  not 
surprised  at  the  change  in  Dion's  appearance  and  manner.  Nor 
were  his  young  eyes  merciless  in  their  scrutiny.  Just  at  first, 
perhaps,  they  stared  with  the  unthinking  observation  of  boy- 
hood, but  almost  immediately  Jimmy  had  taken  the  cue  his 
mother  had  given  him,  and  had  entered  into  his  part  of  a  driver- 
away  of  trouble. 

He  played  it  well,  with  a  tact  that  was  almost  remarkable 
in  so  young  a  boy;  and  Dion,  ignorant  of  what  Mrs.  Clarke 
had  done  on  the  night  of  Jimmy's  arrival,  was  at  first  surprised 
at  the  ease  with  which  they  got  on  together.  He  had  dreaded 
Jimmy's  coming,  partly  because  of  the  secrets  he  must  keep 
from  the  boy,  but  partly  also  because  of  Robin.  A  boy's  hands 
would  surely  tear  at  the  wound  which  was  always  open.  Some- 
times Dion  felt  horribly  sad  when  he  was  in  contact  with 
Jimmy's  light-hearted  and  careless  gaiety;  sometimes  he  felt 
the  gnawing  discomfort  of  one  not  by  nature  a  hypocrite  forced 
into  a  passive  hypocrisy;  nevertheless  there  were  moments  when 
the  burden  of  his  life  was  made  a  little  lighter  on  his  shoulders 
by  the  confidence  his  young  companion  had  in  him,  by  the  ad- 
miration for  him  showed  plainly  by  Jimmy,  by  the  leaping 
spirits  which  ardently  summoned  a  reply  in  kind. 

The  subtlety  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  too,  helped  Dion  at  first. 

Since  her  son's  arrival,  without  ostentation  she  had  lived 
for  him.  She  entered  into  all  Jimmy's  plans,  was  ready  to 
share  his  excitements  and  to  taste,  with  him,  those  pleasures 
which  were  possible  to  a  woman  as  well  as  to  a  boy.  But  she 
was  quick  to  efface  herself  where  she  saw  that  she  was  not 
needed  or  might  even  be  in  the  way.  As  a  mother  she  was 
devoid  of  jealousy,  was  unselfish  without  seeming  to  be  so. 
She  did  not  parade  her  virtue.  Her  reticence  was  that  of  a 
perfectly  finished  artist.  When  she  was  wanted  she  was  on 


448  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  spot;  when  she  was  not  wanted  she  disappeared.  She  sped 
Dion  and  Jimmy  on  their  way  to  boating,  shooting,  swimming 
expeditions,  with  the  happiest  grace,  and  never  assumed  the 
look  and  manner  of  the  patient  woman  "  left  behind." 

Not  once,  since  Jimmy's  arrival,  had  she  shown  to  Dion 
even  a  trace  of  the  passionate  and  perverse  woman  he  now 
knew  her  to  be  under  her  pale  mask  of  self-controlled  and  very 
mental  composure.  At  the  hotel  in  Constantinople  she  had 
said  to  Dion,  "  All  the  time  Jimmy's  at  Buyukderer  we'll  just 
be  friends."  Now  she  seemed  utterly  to  have  forgotten  that 
they  had  ever  been  what  the  world  calls  lovers,  that  they  had 
been  involved  in  scenes  of  passion,  and  brutality,  and  exhaus- 
tion, that  they  had  torn  aside  the  veil  of  reticence  behind  which 
women  and  men  hide  from  each  other  normally  the  naked  truth 
of  what  they  can  be.  She  treated  Dion  casually,  though  very 
kindly,  as  a  friend,  and  never,  even  by  a  swift  glance  or  a  lin- 
gering touch  of  her  fingers,  reminded  him  of  the  fires  that 
burned  within  her.  Even  when  she  was  alone  with  him,  when 
Jimmy  ran  off,  perhaps,  unexpectedly  in  the  wake  of  a  passing 
caprice,  she  never  departed  from  her  role  of  the  friend  who  was 
before  all  things  a  mother. 

So  perfect  was  her  hypocrisy,  so  absolutely  natural  in  its 
manifestation,  that  sometimes,  looking  at  her,  Dion  could 
scarcely  forbear  from  thinking  that  she  had  forgotten  all  about 
their  illicit  connexion;  that  she  had  put  it  behind  her  forever; 
that  she  was  one  of  those  happy  people  who  possess  the  power 
of  slaying  the  past  and  blotting  the  murder  out  of  their  memo- 
ries. 

That  scene  between  them  in  Constantinople  on  the  eve  of 
Jimmy's  arrival  —  had  it  ever  taken  place?  Had  she  really 
ever  tried  to  strike  him  on  the  mouth?  Had  he  caught  her 
wrist  in  a  grip  of  iron  ?  It  seemed  incredible. 

And  if  he  was  involved  in  a  great  hypocrisy  since  the  boy's 
arrival  he  was  released  from  innumerable  lesser  hypocrisies. 
His  life  at  present  was  what  it  seemed  to  be  to  the  little  world 
on  the  Bosporus. 

Just  at  first  he  did  not  realize  that  though  Mrs.  Clarke  genu- 
inely loved  her  son  she  was  not  too  scrupulous  to  press  his  un- 
conscious services  in  aid  of  her  hypocrisy. 

The  holiday  tutor  whom  she  ought  to  have  got  out  from  Eng- 
land to  improve  the  shining  hour  on  Jimmy's  behalf  was  re- 
placed by  Dion  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  world. 

One  day  she  said  to  Dion: 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 


449 


"  Will  you  do  me  a  good  turn?  " 

"  Yes,  if  I  can." 

"  It  may  bore  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Read  a  little  bit  with  Jimmy  sometimes,  will  you?  He's 
abominably  ignorant,  and  will  never  be  a  scholar,  but  I  should 
like  him  just  to  keep  up  his  end  at  school." 

"  But  I  haven't  got  any  school-books." 

"  I  have.  He's  specially  behindhand  with  his  Greek.  His 
report  tells  me  that.  If  you'll  do  a  little  Greek  grammar  and 
construing  with  him  in  the  mornings  now  and  then,  I  shall  be 
tremendously  grateful.  You  see,  owing  to  my  miserable  domes- 
tic circumstances,  Jimmy  is  practically  fatherless." 

"  And  you  ask  me  to  take  his  father's  place!  "  was  in  Dion's 
mind. 

But  she  met  his  eyes  so  earnestly  and  with  such  sincerity  that 
he  only  said: 

"  Of  course  I'll  read  with  him  in  the  mornings." 

Despite  the  ardent  protests  of  Jimmy  Dion  kept  his  promise. 
Soon  Mrs.  Clarke's  numerous  acquaintances  knew  of  the  morn- 
ing hours  of  study.  She  had  happened  to  tell  Sir  Carey  Ingle- 
ton  about  Jimmy's  backwardness  in  book-learning  and  Mr. 
Leith's  kind  efforts  to  "  get  him  on  during  the  holidays."  Sir 
Carey  had  spoken  of  it  to  Cyril  Vane.  The  thing  "  got  about." 
The  name  of  Dion  Leith  began  to  be  connected  rather  with 
Jimmy  Clarke  than  with  Mrs.  Clarke.  Continually  Dion  and 
Jimmy  were  seen  about  together.  Mrs.  Clarke,  meanwhile, 
often  went  among  her  friends  alone,  and  when  they  asked  about 
Jimmy  she  would  say: 

"  Oh,  he's  gone  off  somewhere  with  Mr.  Leith.  I  don't  know 
where.  Mr.  Leith's  a  regular  boy's  man  and  was  a  great  chum 
of  Jimmy's  in  London;  used  to  show  him  how  to  box  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  It's  partly  for  Jimmy  that  he  came  to  Buyuk- 
derer.  They  read  together  in  the  mornings.  Mr.  Leith's  get- 
ting Jimmy  on  in  Greek." 

Sometimes  she  would  add: 

"  Mr.  Leith  loves  boys,  and  since  his  own  child  died  so  sadly 
I  think  he's  taken  to  Jimmy  more  than  ever." 

Soon  people  began  to  talk  of  Dion  Leith  as  "  Jimmy  Clarke's 
holiday  tutor."  Once,  when  this  was  said  in  Lady  Ingleton's 
drawing-room  at  Therapia,  she  murmured: 

"  I  don't  think  it  quite  amounts  to  that.  Mr.  Leith  has  never 
been  a  schoolmaster." 


450  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

And  there  she  left  it,  with  a  faint  smile  in  which  there  was 
just  the  hint  of  an  almost  cynical  sadness. 

Since  the  trip  to  Brusa  on  the  "  Leyla  "  she  had  thought  a 
great  deal  about  Dion  Leith,  and  she  was  very  sorry  for  him  in 
a  rather  unusual  way.  Out  of  her  happiness  with  her  husband 
she  seemed  to  draw  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  what  such  a 
nature  as  Dion  Leith's  wanted  and  of  the  extent  of  his  loss. 
Once  she  said  to  Sir  Carey,  with  a  sort  of  intensity  such  as  she 
seldom  showed: 

"  Good  women  do  terrible  things  sometimes." 

"  Such  as ?  "  said  Sir  Carey,  looking  at  Her  almost  with 

surprise  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Leith  has  done  a  terrible  thing  to  her  hus- 
band." 

"  Perhaps  she  loved  the  child  too  much." 

"  Even  love  can  be  almost  abominable,"  said  Lady  Ingle- 
ton.  "  If  we  had  had  a  child,  and  you  had  done  what  poor 
Dion  Leith  has  done,  do  you  think  I  should  have  cast  you  out  of 
my  life?" 

"  But  —  are  you  a  good  woman  ?  "  he  asked  her,  smiling. 

"  No,  or  you  would  never  have  bothered  about  me." 

He  touched  her  hand. 

"  When  you  do  that,"  Lady  Ingleton  said,  "  I  could  almost 
cry  over  poor  Dion  Leith." 

Sir  Carey  bent  down  and  kissed  her  with  a  very  tender  gal- 
lantry. 

"  You  and  I  are  secretly  sentimentalists,  Delia,"  he  said. 
"  That  is  why  we  are  so  happy  together." 

"Why  doesn't  Dion  Leith  go  to  England?"  she  exclaimed, 
almost  angrily. 

"  Perhaps  England  seems  full  of  his  misery.  Besides,  his 
wife  is  there." 

"  He  ought  to  go  to  her.  He  ought  to  force  her  to  see  the  evil 
she  is  doing." 

"  Leith  will  never  do  that,  I  feel  sure,"  said  Sir  Carey  gravely. 
"  And  in  his  place  I  don't  know  that  I  could." 

Lady  Ingleton  looked  at  him  with  an  almost  sharp  impatience 
such  as  she  seldom  showed  him. 

"  When  a  man  has  right  on  his  side  he  ought  to  browbeat  a 
woman!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  And  even  if  he  is  in  the  wrong  it's 
the  best  way  to  make  a  woman  see  things  through  his  eyes. 
Dion  Leith  is  too  delicate  with  women." 

After  a  moment  she  added: 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  451 

"  At  any  rate  with  some  women,  the  first  of  whom  is  his 
own  wife.  A  man  should  always  put  up  a  big  fight  for  a  really 
big  thing,  and  Dion  Leith  hasn't  done  that!  " 

"  He  fought  in  South  Africa  for  England." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  lifting  her  chin,  "  that  sort  of  thing  is  so 
different." 

"  Tell  him  what  you  think,"  said  the  Ambassador. 

"  I  know  him  so  little.  But  perhaps  —  who  knows  —  some 
day  I  shall  " 

She  said  no  more  on  that  subject. 

Meanwhile  Dion  was  teaching  Jimmy,  who  was  really  full 
of  the  happiest  ignorance.  Jimmy's  knowledge  of  Greek  was 
a  minus  quantity,  and  he  said  frankly  that  he  considered  all 
that  kind  of  thing  "  more  or  less  rot."  Nevertheless,  Dion  per- 
severed. One  morning  when  they  were  going  to  get  to  work 
as  usual  in  the  pavilion, —  chosen  by  Mrs.  Clarke  as  the  suit- 
able place  for  his  studies, —  taking  up  the  Greek  Grammar  Dion 
opened  it  by  chance  at  the  verb  "  iravw."  He  stood  by  the 
table  from  which  he  had  picked  the  book  up  staring  down  at 
the  page.  By  one  of  those  terrible  rushes  of  which  the  mind 
is  capable  he  was  swept  back  to  the  famous  mound  which  fronts 
the  plain  of  Marathon;  he  saw  the  curving  line  of  hills,  the 
sea  intensely  blue  and  sparkling,  empty  of  ships,  the  river's 
course  through  the  tawny  land  marked  by  the  tall  reeds  and  the 
sedges;  he  heard  the  distant  lowing  of  cattle  coming  from  that 
old  battlefield,  celebrated  by  poets  and  historians.  And  then 
he  heard,  as  if  just  above  him,  the  dry  crackle  of  brushwood  — 
Rosamund  moving  in  the  habitation  of  Arcady.  And  he  re- 
membered the  cry,  the  intense  human  cry  which  had  echoed  in 
the  recesses  of  his  soul  on  that  day  long  —  how  long  —  ago  in 
Greece,  "  Whither  ?  Whither  am  I  and  my  great  love  going  ? 
To  what  end  are  we  journeying?  " 

He  heard  again  that  cry  of  his  soul  in  the  pavilion  at 
Buyukderer,  and  beneath  the  sunburn  his  lean  cheeks  went 
lividly  pale. 

Reluctantly  Jimmy  was  getting  an  exercise  book  and  a  pen 
and  ink  out  of  the  drawer  of  a  table,  which  Mrs.  Clarke  had 
had  specially  made  for  the  lessons  by  a  little  Greek  carpenter 
who  sometimes  did  odd  jobs  for  her.  He  found  the  ink  bottle 
almost  empty. 

"  I  say,"  he  began. 

He  looked  up. 

"  I  say,  Mr.  Leith " 


452  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

His  voice  died  away  and  he  stared. 

"  What's  wrong  ?  "  he  managed  to  bring  out  at  last. 

He  thrust  out  a  hand  and  laid  hold  of  the  grammar.  Dion 
let  it  go. 

"  Travo)  I  "  said  Jimmy. 

His  eyes  searched  the  page. 

"  There's  nothing  else.     What's  up,  Mr.  Leith?  " 

He  looked  frankly  puzzled  and  almost  afraid.  He  had  never 
seen  any  one  look  just  like  that  before. 

"  This  is  only  '  Trauw,'  "  he  continued,  in  a  voice  which,  as 
he  afterwards  said  to  his  mother,  "  sounded  just  like  a  rab- 
bit's." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  said  Dion,  in  a  stern  voice. 

"  Well  then "  said  Jimmy. 

He  stopped.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Then,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  manner,  and  in  a  different  voice,  Dion 
exclaimed : 

"Come  on,  Jimmy!  I  don't  feel  like  doing  lessons  this 
morning.  I  vote  we  go  out.  I'm  going  to  ask  your  mother  if 
we  can  ride  to  the  Belgrad  forest.  Perhaps  she'll  come  with  us." 

He  was  suddenly  afraid  to  remain  alone  with  the  boy,  and 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  stay  in  that  pavilion  full  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  feverish  passion,  of  secrecy,  of  betrayal.  Yes,  of 
betrayal!  For  there  he  had  betrayed  the  obstinate  love,  which 
he  had  felt  at  Marathon  as  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  and  still  felt, 
but  now  like  a  wound,  within  him  in  spite  of  Rosamund's  re- 
jection of  him.  Not  yet  had  the  current  taken  him  and  swept 
him  away  from  all  the  old  landmarks.  Perhaps  it  never 
would.  And  yet  he  had  given  himself  to  it,  he  had  not  tried 
to  resist. 

Jimmy  jumped  up  with  alacrity,  though  he  still  looked  rather 
grave  and  astonished.  They  went  down  the  terraced  garden 
to  the  villa. 

"  Run  up  and  ask  your  mother,"  said  Dion.  "  Probably  she's 
in  her  sitting-room.  I'll  wait  here  to  know  what  she  says." 

"Right  you  are!  " 

He  went  off,  looking  rather  relieved. 

Robin  at  fifteen!     Dion  shut  his  eyes. 

Jimmy  was  away  for  more  than  ten  minutes.  Then  he  came 
back  to  say  his  mother  would  come  with  them  to  the  forest  and 
would  be  ready  in  an  hour's  time. 

"  I'll  go  back  to  my  rooms,  change  my  breeches,  and  order 
the  horses,"  said  Dion. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  453 

He  was  longing  to  get  away  from  the  scrutiny  which  at  this 
moment  Jimmy  could  not  forego.  He  knew  that  Jimmy  had 
been  talking  about  him  to  Mrs.  Clarke,  had  probably  been 
saying  how  "  jolly  odd  "  he  had  been  in  the  pavilion.  For 
once  the  boy's  tact  had  failed  him,  and  Dion's  sensitiveness 
tingled. 

An  hour  later  they  were  on  horseback  and  rode  into  the  midst 
of  the  forest.  At  the  village  of  Belgrad  they  dismounted,  left 
the  horses  in  the  care  of  a  Turkish  stableman,  and  went  for  a 
walk  among  the  trees.  It  was  very  hot  and  still,  and  pres- 
ently Mrs.  Clarke  said  she  would  sit  down  and  rest. 

"  You  and  Jimmy  go  on  if  you  want  to,"  she  said. 

But  Jimmy  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground. 

"  I'm  tired.     It's  so  infernally  hot." 

"  Take  a  nap,"  said  his  mother. 

The  boy  laid  his  head  on  his  curved  arms  sideways.  Mrs. 
Clarke  leaned  down  and  put  his  panama  hat  over  his  left  cheek 
and  eye. 

"  Thank  you,  mater,"  he  murmured. 

He  lay  still. 

Dion  had  stood  by  with  an  air  of  hesitation  during  this  lit- 
tle talk  between  mother  and  son.  Now  he  looked  away  to  the 
forest. 

"  You  go,"  Mrs.  Clarke  said  to  him.  "  You'll  find  us  here 
when  you  come  back.  The  Armenians  call  the  forest  Defet- 
gamm.  Perhaps  you  will  come  under  its  influence." 

"  Defetgamm!    What  does  that  mean?  " 

"  Dispeller  of  care." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  moment;  then,  without  an- 
other word,  he  turned  quickly  away  and  disappeared  among 
the  trees. 

Jimmy  slept  with  his  face  hidden,  and  Mrs.  Clarke,  with 
wide-open  eyes,  sat  motionless  staring  into  the  forest. 

When  they  reached  the  Villa  Hafiz  late  in  the  afternoon  Dion 
helped  Mrs.  Clarke  to  dismount.  As  she  slid  down  lightly 
from  the  saddle  she  whispered,  scarcely  moving  her  lips : 

"  The  pavilion  to-night  eleven.     You've  got  the  key." 

She  patted  Selim's  glossy  black  neck. 

"  Come,  Jimmy!  "  she  said.  "  Say  good  night  to  Mr.  Leith. 
I'm  sure  he's  tired  and  has  had  more  than  enough  of  us  for  to- 
day. We'll  give  him  a  rest  from  us  till  to-morrow." 

And  Jimmy  bade  Dion  good-by  without  any  protest. 

As  Dion  rode  off  Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  turn  to  look  after  him. 


454  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  had  npt  troubled  even  to  question  him  with  her  eyes.  She 
had  assumed  that  he  would  do  what  she  wanted.  Would  he 
do  that? 

At  first  he  believed  that  he  would  not  go.  He  had  been 
away  in  the  forest  with  his  misery  for  nearly  two  hours,  strug- 
gling among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Jimmy  had  seen  in  the 
pavilion  that  morning  that  his  "  holiday  tutor  "  was  strangely 
ill  at  ease,  and  had  discussed  the  matter  with  his  mater,  and 
asked  her  why  on  earth  the  sight  of  a  page  of  Greek  grammar 
should  make  a  fellow  stand  staring  as  if  he  were  confronted  by 
a  ghost.  But  Jimmy  had  no  conception  of  what  Dion  had  been 
through  in  the  forest,  where  happy  Greeks  and  Armenians  were 
lazily  enjoying  the  empty  hours  of  summer,  forgetting  yesterday, 
and  serenely  careless  of  to-morrow. 

In  the  forest  Dion  had  fought  with  an  old  love  of  which  he 
began  to  be  angrily  ashamed,  with  a  love  which  was  now  his 
greatest  enemy,  a  thing  contemptible,  inexplicable.  In  the  pa- 
vilion that  morning  it  had  suddenly  risen  up  before  him  strong, 
intense,  passionate.  It  seemed  irresistible.  But  he  was  almost 
furiously  resolved  not  merely  to  resist  it,  but  to  crush  it  down, 
to  break  it  in  pieces,  or  to  drive  it  finally  out  of  his  life. 

And  he  had  fought  with  it  alone  in  the  forest  which  the 
Armenians  call  Defetgamm.  And  in  the  forest  something  — 
some  adherent,  it  seemed  —  had  whispered  to  him,  "  To  kill 
your  enemy  you  must  fill  your  armory  with  weapons.  The 
woman  who  came  to  you  when  you  were  neither  in  one  world 
nor  in  the  other  is  a  weapon.  Why  have  you  ceased  to  use 
her?  " 

And  now,  as  if  she  had  heard  the  voice  of  that  adherent, 
and  had  known  of  the  struggle  in  the  forest,  the  woman  her- 
self had  suddenly  broken  through  the  reserve  she  had  imposed 
upon  them  both  since  the  coming  of  her  son. 

In  a  hideous  way  Dion  wanted  her,  and  yet  he  shrank  from 
going  back  to  her  secretly.  The  coming  of  Jimmy,  his  rela- 
tions with  the  boy,  the  boy's  hearty  affection  for  him  and  ad- 
miration for  him,  had  roused  into  intense  activity  that  part  of 
his  nature  which  had  always  loved,  which  he  supposed  always 
must  love,  the  straight  life;  the  life  with  morning  face  and 
clear,  unfaltering  eyes;  the  life  which  the  Hermes  suggested, 
immune  from  the  fret  and  fever  of  secret  vices  and  passions, 
lifted  by  winged  sandals  into  a  region  where  soul  and  body 
were  in  perfect  accord,  and  where,  because  of  that,  there  was 
peace;  not  a  peace  of  stagnation,  but  a  peace  living  and  in- 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  455 

tense.  But  that  part  of  his  nature  led  him  even  now  instinc- 
tively back  to  the  feet  of  Rosamund.  And  he  revolted  against 
such  a  pilgrimage. 

"The  pavilion  to-night  eleven;  you've  got  the  key." 

Her  face  had  not  changed  as  she  whispered  the  words,  and 
immediately  afterwards  she  had  told  a  lie  to  her  boy,  or  had 
implied  a  lie.  She  had  made  Jimmy  believe  the  thing  that  was 
not.  Loving  Jimmy,  she  did  not  scruple  to  play  a  part  to 
him. 

Dion  ate  no  dinner  that  night.  After  returning  to  his  rooms 
and  getting  out  of  his  riding  things  into  a  loose  serge  suit  he 
went  out  again  and  walked  along  the  quay  by  the  water.  He 
paced  up  and  down,  ignoring  the  many  passers-by,  the  boatmen 
and  watermen  who  now  knew  him  so  well. 

He  was  considering  whether  he  should  go  to  the  pavilion 
at  the  appointed  hour  or  whether  he  should  leave  Buyukderer 
altogether  and  not  return  to  it.  This  evening  he  was  in  the 
mood  to  be  drastic.  He  might  go  down  to  Constantinople  and 
finally  cast  his  burden  away  there,  never  to  take  it  up  again  — 
the  burden  of  an  old  love  whose  chains  still  hung  about  him; 
he  might  plunge  into  the  lowest  depths,  into  depths  where  per- 
haps the  remembrance  of  Rosamund  and  the  early  morning 
would  fade  away  from  him,  where  even  Mrs.  Clarke  would  not 
care  to  seek  for  him,  although  her  will  was  persistent. 

He  fully  realized  now  her  extraordinary  persistence,  the  fierce 
firmness  of  character  that  was  concealed  by  her  quiet  and  gen- 
erally impersonal  manner.  Certainly  she  had  the  temperament 
of  a  ruler.  He  remembered  —  it  seemed  to  him  with  a  bizarre 
abruptness  —  the  smile  on  Dumeny's  lips  in  the  Divorce  Court 
when  the  great  case  had  ended  in  Mrs.  Clarke's  favor. 

Did  he  really  know  Cynthia  Clarke  even  now? 

He  walked  faster.  Now  he  saw  Hadi  Bey  before  him,  self- 
possessed,  firm,  with  that  curiously  vivid  look  which  had  at- 
tracted the  many  women  in  Court. 

And  Jimmy  believed  in  his  mother.  Perhaps,  until  Dion's 
arrival  in  Buyukderer,  the  boy  had  had  reason  in  his  belief  — 
perhaps  not.  Dion  was  very  uncertain  to-night. 

A  sort  of  cold  curiosity  was  born  in  him.  Until  now  he 
had  accepted  Mrs.  Clarke's  presentment  of  herself  to  the  world, 
which  included  himself,  as  a  genuine  portrait;  now  he  began  to 
recall  the  long  speech  of  Beadon  Clarke's  counsel.  But  the 
man  had  been  only  speaking  according  to  his  brief,  had  been 
only  putting  forth  all  the  ingenuity  and  talent  which  enabled 


456  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

him  to  command  immense  fees  for  his  services.  And  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  beaten  him.  The  jury  had  said  that  she  was  not 
what  he  had  asserted  her  to  be. 

Suppose  they  had  made  a  mistake,  had  given  the  wrong  ver- 
dict, why  should  that  make  any  difference  to  Dion?  He  had 
definitely  done  with  the  goodness  of  good  women.  Why  should 
he  fear  the  evil  of  a  woman  who  was  bad?  Perhaps  in  the 
women  who  were  called  evil  by  the  respectable,  or  by  those 
who  were  temperamentally  inclined  to  purity,  there  was  more 
warm  humanity  than  the  women  possessed  who  never  made  a 
slip,  or  stepped  out  of  the  beaten  path  of  virtue.  Perhaps  those 
to  whom  much  must  be  forgiven  were  those  who  knew  how  to 
forgive. 

If  Mrs.  Clarke  really  were  what  Beadon  Clarke's  counsel 
had  suggested  that  she  was,  how  would  it  affect  him?  Dion 
pondered  that  question  on  the  quay.  Mrs.  Clarke's  pale  and 
very  efficient  hypocrisy,  which  he  had  been  able  to  observe  at 
close  quarters  since  he  had  been  at  Buyukderer,  might  well  have 
been  brought  into  play  against  himself,  as  it  had  been  brought 
into  play  against  the  little  world  on  the  Bosporus  and  against 
Jimmy. 

Dion  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go  to  the  pavilion 
that  night.  The  cold  curiosity  which  had  floated  up  to  the 
surface  of  his  mind  enticed  him.  He  wanted  to  know  whether 
he  was  among  the  victims,  if  they  could  reasonably  be  called 
so,  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  delicate  hypocrisy.  He  was  still  thinking 
of  Mrs.  Clarke  as  a  weapon;  he  was  also  thinking  that  perhaps 
he  did  not  yet  know  exactly  what  type  of  weapon  she  was.  He 
must  find  that  out  to-night.  Not  even  the  thought  of  Jimmy 
should  deter  him. 

At  a  few  minutes  before  eleven  he  went  back  to  his  rooms, 
unlocked  his  despatch  box,  and  drew  out  the  key  of  the  gate  of 
Mrs.  Clarke's  garden.  He  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  and  set  out 
on  the  short  walk  to  the  Villa  Hafiz.  The  night  was  dark 
and  cloudy  and  very  still.  Dion  walked  quickly  and  surrep- 
titiously, not  looking  at  any  of  the  people  who  went  by  him 
in  the  darkness.  All  the  windows  of  the  villa  which  faced  the 
sea  were  shuttered  and  showed  no  lights.  He  turned  to  the 
right,  stood  before  the  garden  gate  and  listened.  He  heard 
no  sound  except  a  distant  singing  on  the  oily  waters  of  the 
Bay.  Softly  he  put  his  key  into  the  gate,  gently  unlocked  it, 
stepped  into  the  garden.  A  few  minutes  later  he  was  on  the 
highest  terrace  and  approached  the  pavilion.  As  he  did  so  Mrs. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  457 

Clarke  came  out  of  the  drawing-room  of  the  villa,  passed  by  the 
fountain,  and  began  to  ascend  the  garden. 

She  was  dressed  in  black  and  in  a  material  that  did  not 
rustle.  Her  thin  figure  did  not  show  up  against  the  night,  and 
her  light  slow  footfall  was  scarcely  audible  on  the  paths  and 
steps  as  she  went  upward.  Jimmy  had  gone  to  bed  long  ago, 
tired  out  with  the  long  ride  in  the  heat.  She  had  just  been  into 
his  bedroom,  without  a  light,  and  had  heard  his  regular  breath- 
ing. He  was  fast  asleep,  and  once  he  was  asleep  he  never  woke 
till  the  light  of  day  shone  in  at  the  window.  It  was  a  comfort 
that  one  could  thoroughly  rely  on  the  sleeping  powers  of  a 
healthy  boy  of  fifteen. 

She  sighed  as  she  thought  about  Jimmy.  The  boy  was  go- 
ing to  complicate  her  life.  She  was  by  nature  an  unusually 
fearless  woman,  but  she  was  beginning  to  realize  that  there 
might  come  a  time  when  she  would  know  fear  —  unless  she 
could  begin  to  live  differently  as  Jimmy  began  to  grow  up. 
But  how  could  she  do  that?  There  are  things  which  seem  to 
be  impossible  even  to  strong  wills.  Her  will  was  very  strong, 
but  she  had  always  used  it  not  to  renounce  but  to  attain,  not 
to  hold  her  desires  in  check  but  to  bring  them  to  fruition.  And 
it  was  late  in  the  day  to  begin  reversing  the  powerful  engine 
of  her  will.  She  was  not  even  sure  that  she  could  reverse  it. 
Hitherto  she  had  never  genuinely  tried  to  do  that.  She  did 
not  want  to  try  now,  partly  —  but  only  partly  —  because  she 
hated  to  fail  in  anything  she  undertook.  And  she  had  a  sus- 
picion, which  she  was  not  anxious  to  turn  into  a  certainty,  that 
she  who  had  ruled  many  people  was  only  a  slave  herself.  Per- 
haps some  day  Jimmy  would  force  her  to  a  knowledge  of  her 
exact  condition. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  half  afraid  of  that  mys- 
terious energy  which  men  and  women  call  love;  she  began  to 
understand,  with  a  sort  of  ample  fulness  of  comprehension, 
that  of  all  loves  the  most  determined  is  the  love  of  a  mother  for 
her  only  son.  A  mother  may,  perhaps,  have  a  son  and  not  love 
him;  but  if  once  she  loves  him  she  holds  within  her  a  thing 
that  will  not  die  while  she  lives. 

And  if  the  thing  that  was  without  lust  stood  up  in  battle 
against  the  thing  that  was  full  of  lust  —  what  then? 

The  black  and  still  night  seemed  a  battlefield. 

Softly  she  stepped  upon  the  highest  terrace  and  stood  for 
a  moment  under  the  great  plane  tree,  where  was  the  wooden 
seat  on  which  she  had  waited  for  Dion  to  weep  away  the  past 


458  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  the  good  woman  who  had  ruined  his  life.  To-night  she 
was  invaded  by  an  odd  uncertainty.  If  she  went  to  the  pavilion 
and  Dion  were  not  there?  If  he  did  not  come?  Would  some 
part  of  her,  perhaps,  be  glad,  the  part  that  in  a  mysterious  way 
was  one  with  Jimmy?  She  stared  into  the  darkness,  looking 
towards  the  pavilion.  Dion  Leith  had  once  said  she  looked 
punished.  Perhaps  when  he  had  said  that  he  had  shown  that 
he  had  intuition. 

Was  he  there?  It  was  past  eleven  now.  She  had  assumed 
that  he  would  come,  and  she  was  inclined  to  believe  that  he 
had  come.  If  so  she  need  not  see  him  even  now.  There  was 
still  time  for  her  to  go  back  to  the  villa,  to  shut  herself  in,  to 
go  to  bed,  as  Jimmy  had  gone  to  bed.  But  if  she  did  that  she 
would  not  sleep.  All  night  long  she  would  lie  wide  awake, 
tossing  from  side  to  side,  the  helpless  prey  of  her  past  life. 

She  frowned  and  slipped  through  the  darkness,  almost  like 
a  fluid,  to  the  pavilion. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SHE  came  so  silently  that  Dion  heard  nothing  till  against 
the  background  of  the  night  he  saw  a  shadow,  her  thin 
body,  a  faint  whiteness,  her  face,  motionless  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  pavilion;  from  this  shadow  and  this  whiteness  came 
a  voice  which  said: 

"  Did  you  come  under  the  influence  of  Defetgamm  ?  " 

"  It's  impossible  that  you  see  me!  "  he  said. 

"  I  see  you  plainly  with  some  part  of  me,  not  my  eyes." 

He  got  up  from  the  divan  where  he  had  been  sitting  in  the 
dark  and  went  to  the  opening  of  the  pavilion. 

"  Did  you  come  under  the  influence  of  Defetgamm?  "  she  re- 
peated. 

"  You  know  I  didn't." 

He  paused,  then  added: 

"  I  nearly  didn't  come  to-night." 

"  And  I  nearly  went  down,  after  I  had  come  up  here,  with- 
out seeing  you.  And  yet  —  we  are  together  again." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  see  me  here?     We  agreed " 

"  Yes,  we  agreed ;  but  after  to-day  in  the  forest  that  agree- 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  459 

ment  had  to  be  broken.  When  you  left  me  under  the  trees  you 
looked  like  a  man  who  was  thinking  of  starting  on  a  very 
long  journey." 

She  spoke  with  a  peculiar  significance  which  at  once  con- 
veyed her  full  meaning  to  him. 

"  No,  I  shall  never  do  that,"  he  said.  "  If  I  had  been  capa- 
ble of  it,  I  should  have  done  it  long  ago." 

"  Yes?    Let  me  in." 

He  moved.     She  slipped  into  the  pavilion  and  sat  down. 

"  How  can  you  move  without  making  any  sound?  "  he  asked 
somberly. 

There  had  been  in  her  movement  a  sort  of  perfection  of  sur- 
reptitiousness  that  was  animal.  He  noticed  it,  and  thought  that 
she  must  surely  be  accustomed  to  moving  with  precaution  lest 
she  should  be  seen  or  heard.  Rosamund  could  not  move  like 
that.  A  life  story  seemed  to  him  to  be  faintly  traced  in  Mrs. 
Clarke's  manner  of  entering  the  pavilion  and  of  sitting  down 
on  the  divan. 

He  stood  beside  her  in  the  dark.  She  returned  no  answer 
to  his  question. 

"  You  spoke  of  a  journey,"  he  said.  "  The  only  journey  I 
have  thought  of  making  is  short  enough  —  to  Constantinople. 
I  nearly  started  on  it  to-night." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  to  Constantinople?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  What  would  you  do  there?  " 

"  Ugly  things,  perhaps." 

"  Why  didn't  you  go?     What  kept  you?  " 

"  I  felt  that  I  must  ask  you  something." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  both  her  hands  roughly. 
They  were  dry  and  burning  as  if  with  fever. 

"  You  trick  Jimmy,"  he  said.  "  You  trick  the  Ingletons, 
Vane,  all  the  people  here " 

"Trick!"  she  interrupted  coldly,  almost  disdainfully. 
"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  That  you  deceive  them,  take  them  in." 

"What  about?" 

"  You  know  quite  well." 

After  a  pause,  which  was  perhaps  —  he  could  not  tell  —  a 
pause  of  astonishment,  she  said: 

"  Do  you  really  expect  me  to  go  about  telling  every  one 
that  I,  a  lonely  woman,  separated  from  my  husband,  unable  to 
marry  again,  have  met  a  man  whom  I  care  for,  and  that  I've 


460  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

been  weak  enough  —  or  wicked  enough,  if  you  like  —  to  let 
him  know  it?  " 

Dion  felt  his  cheeks  burn  in  the  darkness.  Nevertheless, 
something  drove  him  on,  forced  him  to  push  his  way  hardily 
through  a  sort  of  quickset  hedge  of  reluctance  and  shame. 

"  No,  I  don't  expect  absurdities.  I  am  not  such  a  fool.  But 
—  but  you  do  it  so  well !  " 

"Do  what  well?" 

"  Everything  connected  with  deception.  You  are  such  a  mis- 
tress of  it." 

"Well?" 

"  Isn't  that  rather  strange?  " 

"  Do  you  expect  a  woman  like  me,  a  woman  who  can't  pre- 
tend to  stupidity,  and  who  has  lived  for  years  in  the  diplomatic 
world,  to  blunder  in  what  she  undertakes?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.     But  you  are  too  competent." 

He  spoke  with  hard  determination,  but  his  cheeks  were  still 
burning. 

"  It's  impossible  to  be  too  competent.  If  I  make  up  my 
mind  that  a  thing  must  be  done  I  resolve  to  do  it  thoroughly 
and  to  do  it  well.  I  despise  blunderers  and  women  who  are 
afraid  of  what  they  do.  I  despise  those  who  give  themselves 
and  others  away.  I  cared  for  you.  I  saw  you  needed  me 
and  I  gave  myself  to  you.  I  am  not  sorry  I  did  it,  not  a  bit 
sorry.  I  had  counted  the  cost  before  I  did  it." 

"Counted  the  cost?  But  what  cost  is  there?  Neither  of 
us  loses  anything." 

"  I  risk  losing  almost  everything  a  woman  cares  for.  I  don't 
want  to  dwell  upon  it.  I  detest  women  who  indulge  in  re- 
proaches, or  who  try  to  make  men  value  them  by  pointing  out 
how  much  they  stand  to  lose  by  giving  themselves.  But  you 
are  so  strange  to-night.  You  have  attacked  me.  I  don't  know 
why." 

"  I've  been  walking  on  the  quay  and  thinking." 

"What  about?" 
You!" 
Go  on." 

"  I've  been  thinking  that,  as  you  take  in  Jimmy  and  all  the 
people  here  so  easily,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  be 
taking  me  in  too." 

In  the  dark  a  feeling  was  steadily  growing  within  him  that 
his  companion  was  playing  with  him  as  he  knew  she  had  played 
with  others. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  461 

"  I'm  forced  to  deceive  the  people  here  and  my  boy.  My 
relation  with  you  obliges  me  to  do  that.  But  nothing  forces 
me  to  deceive  you.  I  have  been  sincere  with  you.  Ever  since  I 
met  you  in  the  street  in  Pera  I've  been  sincere,  even  blunt.  I 
should  think  you  must  have  noticed  it." 

"  I  have.  In  some  ways  you  are  blunt,  but  in  many  you 
aren't." 

"  What  is  it  exactly  that  you  wish  to  know?  " 

For  a  moment  Dion  was  silent.  In  the  darkness  of  the  pa- 
vilion he  saw  Dumeny's  lips  smiling  faintly,  Hadi  Bey's  vivid, 
self-possessed  eyes,  the  weak  mouth  of  Brayfield  and  his  own 
double.  Was  he  a  member  of  an  ugly  brotherhood,  or  did  he 
stand  alone  ?  He  wanted  to  know,  yet  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
put  such  a  hideous  question  to  his  companion. 

"  Tell  me  exactly  what  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Don't  be  afraid. 
I  wish  to  be  quite  sincere  with  you,  though  you  think  I  don't. 
It  is  no  pleasure  to  me  to  deceive  people.  What  I  do  in  the 
way  of  deception  I  do  in  self-defense.  Circumstances  often 
push  us  into  doing  what  we  don't  enjoy  doing.  But  you  and  I 
ought  to  be  frank  with  one  another." 

Her  hands  tightened  on  his. 

"  Go  on.     Tell  me." 

"  I've  been  wondering  whether  your  husband  ought  to  have 
won  his  case,"  said  Dion,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Is  that  all?  "  she  said,  very  simply  and  without  any  emo- 
tion. 

"All?" 

"  Yes.  Do  you  suppose,  when  I  gave  myself  to  you,  I 
didn't  realize  that  my  doing  it  was  certain  to  make  you  doubt 
my  virtue?  Dion,  you  don't  know  how  boyish  you  still  are. 
You  will  always  be  in  some  ways  a  boy.  I  knew  you  would 
doubt  me  after  all  that  had  happened.  But  what  is  the  good 
of  asking  questions  of  a  woman  whom  you  doubt?  If  I  am 
what  you  suspect,  of  course  I  shall  tell  you  lies.  If  I  am  not, 
what  is  the  good  of  my  telling  you  the  truth?  What  is  to 
make  you  believe  it?  " 

He  was  silent.  She  moved  slightly  and  he  felt  her  thin 
body  against  his  side.  What  sort  of  weapon  was  she?  That 
was  the  great  question  for  him.  Since  his  struggle  in  the 
forest  of  Defetgamm  he  had  come  to  the  resolve  to  strike  fierce 
and  reiterated  blows  on  that  disabling  and  surely  contemptible 
love  of  his,  that  love  which  had  confronted  him  like  a  specter 
when  he  was  in  the  pavilion  with  Jimmy.  He  was  resolved 


462  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

at  last  upon  assassination,  and  he  wanted  a  weapon  that  could 
slay,  not  a  weapon  that  would  bend,  or  perhaps  break,  in  his 
hand. 

"  I  don't  want  to  believe  I  am  only  one  among  many,"  he 
said  at  last. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  gave  her  the  cue  to  his  inmost  feeling. 
She  had  been  puzzled  in  the  forest,  she  had  been  half  afraid, 
seeing  that  he  had  arrived  at  an  acute  emotional  crisis  and 
not  understanding  what  had  brought  him  to  it.  She  did  not 
understand  that  now,  but  she  knew  that  he  was  asking  from 
her  more  than  he  had  ever  asked  before.  He  had  been  cast 
out  and  now  he  was  knocking  hard  on  her  door.  He  was 
knocking,  but  lingering  remnants  of  the  influence  of  the  woman 
who  had  colored  his  former  life  hung  about  him  like  torn  rags, 
and  his  hands  instinctively  felt  for  them,  pulled  at  them,  to 
cover  his  nakedness.  Still,  while  he  knocked,  he  looked  back 
to  the  other  life.  Nevertheless  —  she  knew  this  with  all  there 
was  of  woman  in  her  —  he  wanted  from  her  all  that  the  good 
woman  had  never  given  to  him,  was  incapable  of  giving  to 
him  or  to  any  one.  He  wanted  from  her,  perhaps,  powers  of 
the  body  which  would  suffice  finally  for  the  killing  of  those 
powers  of  the  soul  by  which  he  was  now  tormented  ceaselessly. 
The  sound  of  his  voice  demanded  from  her  something  no  other 
man  had  ever  demanded  from  her,  the  slaughter  in  him  of 
what  he  had  lived  by  through  all  his  years.  Nevertheless  he 
was  still  looking  back  to  all  the  old  purities,  was  still  trying  to 
hear  all  the  old  voices.  He  required  of  her,  as  it  were,  that 
she  should  be  good  in  her  evil,  gentle  while  she  destroyed. 
Well,  she  would  even  be  that.  A  rare  smile  curved  her  thin 
lips,  but  he  did  not  see  it. 

"  Suppose  I  told  you  that  you  were  one  of  many?  "  she  said. 
"  Would  you  give  it  all  up?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Ami?" 

"  No.  Do  you  think,  if  you  were,  I  should  have  kept  my 
women  friends,  Tippie  Chetwinde,  Delia  Ingleton  and  all  the 
rest?" 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  said. 

But  he  remembered  tones  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's  voice  when 
she  had  spoken  of  "  Cynthia  Clarke,"  and  even  tones  in  Lady 
Ingleton's  voice. 

"  They  stuck  to  me  because  they  believed  in  me.  What 
other  reason  could  they  have  ?  " 

"  Unless  they  were  very  devoted  to  you." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  463 

"  Women  aren't  much  given  to  that  sort  of  thing,"  she  said 
dryly. 

"  I  think  you  have  an  unusual  power  of  making  people  do 
what  you  wish.  It  is  like  an  emanation,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  And  it  seems  not  to  be  interfered  with  by  distance." 

She  leaned  till  her  cheek  touched  his. 

"  Dion,  I  wish  to  make  you  forget.  I  know  how  it  is  with 
you.  You  suffer  abominably  because  you  can't  forget.  I 
haven't  succeeded  with  you  yet.  But  wait,  only  wait,  till 
Jimmy  goes,  till  the  summer  is  over  and  we  can  leave  the 
Bosporus.  It's  all  too  intimate  —  the  life  here.  We  are  all 
too  near  together.  But  in  Constantinople  I  know  ways.  I'll 
stay  there  all  the  winter  for  you.  Even  the  Christmas  holi- 
days —  I'll  give  them  up  for  once.  I  want  to  show  you  that 
I  do  care.  For  no  one  else  on  earth  would  I  give  up  being 
with  Jimmy  in  his  holidays.  For  no  one  else  I'd  risk  what 
I'm  risking  to-night." 

"  Jimmy  was  asleep  when  you  came?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  might  wake.  He  never  does,  but  he  might 
wake  just  to-night." 

"  Suppose  he  did !  Suppose  he  looked  for  you  in  your  room 
and  didn't  find  you!  Suppose  he  came  up  here!  " 

"He  won't!"' 

She  spoke  obstinately,  almost  as  if  her  assertion  of  the 
thing's  impossibility  must  make  it  impossible. 

"  And  yet  there's  the  risk  of  it,"  said  Dion  — "  the  great 
risk." 

"  There  are  always  risks  in  connection  with  the  big  things 
in  life.  We  are  worth  very  little  if  we  won't  take  them." 

"  If  it  wasn't  for  Jimmy  would  you  come  and  live  wittt 
me?  Would  you  drop  all  this  deception?  would  you  let 
your  husband  divorce  you?  would  you  give  up  your  place 
in  society  for  me?  I  am  an  outcast.  Would  you  come  and 
be  an  outcast  with  me?  " 

"  Yes,  if  it  wasn't  for  Jimmy." 

"  And  for  Jimmy  you'd  give  me  up  for  ever  in  a  moment, 
wouldn't  you?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  these  questions?  "  she  said,  almost  fiercely. 

"  I  want  something  for  myself,  something  that's  really  mine. 
Then  perhaps " 

He  stopped. 

"  Perhaps  what?  " 

"Perhaps  I  could  forget  —  sometimes." 


464  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  And  yet  when  you  knew  Jimmy  was  coming  here  you 
wanted  to  go  away.  You  were  afraid  then.  And  even 
to-day " 

"  I  want  one  thing  or  the  other!  "  he  interrupted  desperately. 
"  I'm  sick  of  mixing  up  good  and  bad.  I'm  sick  of  prevarica- 
tions and  deceptions.  They  go  against  my  whole  nature.  I 
hate  struggling  in  a  net.  It  saps  all  my  strength." 

"  I  know.     I  understand." 

She  put,  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  give  you  up,  let  you  go.  I've  thought 
that.  But  I  haven't  had  the  courage.  Dion,  I'm  lonely,  I'm 
lonely." 

He  felt  moisture  on  his  cheek. 

"  About  you  I'm  absolutely  selfish,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  swift 
voice.  "  Even  if  all  this  hypocrisy  hurts  you  I  can't  give  you 
up.  I've  told  you  a  lie  —  even  you." 

"When?" 

"  I  said  to  you  on  that  night " 

She  waited. 

"  I  know,"  he  said. 

"  I  said  that  I  hadn't  cared  for  you  till  I  met  you  in  Pera, 
and  saw  what  she  had  done  to  you.  That  was  a  lie.  I  cared 
for  you  in  England.  Didn't  you  know  it?  " 

"  Once  or  twice  I  wondered,  but  I  was  never  at  all  sure." 

"  It  was  because  I  cared  that  I  wanted  to  make  friends  with 
your  wife.  I  had  no  evil  reason.  I  knew  you  and  she  were 
perfectly  happy  together.  But  I  wanted  just  to  see  you  some- 
times. She  guessed  it.  That  was  why  she  avoided  me  —  the 
real  reason.  It  wasn't  only  because  I'd  been  involved  in  a 
scandal,  though  I  told  you  once  it  was.  I've  sometimes  lied 
to  you  because  I  didn't  want  to  feel  myself  humiliated  in  your 
eyes.  But  now  I  don't  care.  You  can  know  all  the  truth  if 
you  want  to.  You  pushed  me  away  —  oh,  very  gently  —  be- 
cause of  her.  Did  you  think  I  didn't  understand?  You  were 
afraid  of  me.  Perhaps  you  thought  I  was  a  nuisance.  When 
I  came  back  from  Paris  on  purpose  for  Tippie  Chetwinde's 
party  you  were  startled,  almost  horrified,  when  you  saw  me. 
I  saw  it  all  so  plainly.  In  the  end,  as  you  know,  I  gave  it 
up.  Only  when  you  went  to  the  war  I  had  to  send  that  tele- 
gram. I  thought  you  might  be  killed,  and  I  wanted  you  to 
know  I  was  remembering  you,  and  admiring  you  for  what  you 
had  done.  Then  you  came  with  poor  Brayfield's  letter " 

She  broke  off,  then  added,  with  a  long,  quivering  sigh: 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  465 

"  You've  made  me  suffer,  Dion." 

"Have  I?" 

He  turned  till  he  was  facing  her  in  the  darkness. 

"  Then  at  last  you  were  overtaken  by  your  tragedy,  and 
she  showed  you  her  cruelty  and  cast  you  out.  From  that 
moment  I  was  resolved  some  day  to  let  you  know  how  much 
I  cared.  I  wanted  you  in  your  misery.  But  I  waited.  I  had 
a  conviction  that  you  would  come  to  me,  drawn,  without  sus- 
pecting it,  by  what  I  felt  for  you.  Well,  you  came  at  last. 
And  now  you  ask  me  whether  you  are  one  of  many." 

"  Forgive  me!  "  he  whispered. 

"  But  of  course  I  shall  always  forgive  you  for  everything. 
Women  who  care  for  men  always  do  that.  They  can't  help 
themselves.  And  you  —  will  you  forgive  me  for  my  lies  ?  " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Life's  full  of  them.  Only  don't  tell  me  any  more,  and 
make  me  forget  if  you  can.  You've  got  so  much  will.  Try  to 
have  the  power  for  that" 

"  Then  help  me.  Give  yourself  wholly  to  me.  You  have 
struggled  against  me  furtively.  You  thought  I  didn't  know 
it,  but  I  did.  You  look  back  to  the  old  ways.  And  that  is 
madness.  Turn  a  new  page,  Dion.  Have  the  courage  to 
hope." 

"To^  hope!" 

Her  hot  hands  closed  on  him  fiercely. 

"  You  shall  hope.  I'll  make  you.  Cut  out  the  cancer  that 
is  in  you,  and  cut  away  all  that  is  round  it.  Then  you'll  have 
health  again.  She  never  knew  how  to  feel  in  the  great  human 
way.  She  was  too  fond  of  God  ever  to  care  for  a  man." 

He  said  no  word  in  defense  of  Rosamund.  Deliberately 
he  was  traitor  to  her.  At  that  moment  he  felt  that  if  he 
defended  her  the  old  habit  of  life  would  assert  upon  him  again 
its  terrible,  its  devastating  power. 

"  She  was  too  fond  of  God  ever  to  care  for  a  man." 

Let  that  be  the  epitaph  over  the  tomb  in  which  all  his  happi- 
ness was  buried. 

In  silence  he  made  his  decision,  and  Cynthia  Clarke  knew  it 

The  darkness  covered  them. 

Down  below  in  the  Villa  Hafiz  Jimmy  was  sleeping  peace- 
fully, tired  by  the  long  ride  to  and  from  the  forest  in  the  heat. 
He  had  gone  to  bed  very  early,  almost  directly  after  dinner. 
His  mother  had  not  advised  this.  Perhaps  indeed,  if  she  had 


466  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

not  been  secretly  concentrated  on  herself  and  her  own  desires 
that  evening,  she  would  have  made  Jimmy  stay  up  till  at  least 
half-past  ten,  even  though  he  was  "  jolly  sleepy."  He  had 
slept  for  at  least  two  hours  in  the  forest.  She  ought  to  have 
remembered  that,  but  she  had  forgotten  it,  and  when,  at  a  quar- 
ter to  nine,  on  an  enormous  yawn,  Jimmy  had  announced  that 
he  thought  he  would  "  turn  in  and  get  between  the  sheets,"  she 
had  almost  eagerly  acquiesced.  She  wanted  her  boy  asleep, 
soundly  asleep  that  night.  When  the  clock  had  struck  nine 
he  had  already  traveled  beyond  the  land  of  dreams. 

The  night  was  intensely  hot  and  airless.  No  breath  of  wind 
came  from  the  sea.  Drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  the  boy's 
forehead  as  he  slept,  with  nothing  over  him  but  a  sheet.  He 
lay  on  his  side,  with  his  face  towards  the  open  window  and  one 
arm  outside  the  sheet. 

People  easily  fall  into  habits  of  sleeping.  Jimmy  was  accus- 
tomed to  sleep  for  about  eight  hours  "  on  end,"  as  he  put  it. 
When  he  had  had  his  eight  hours  he  generally  woke  up.  If 
he  was  not  obliged  to  get  up  he  often  went  to  sleep  again  after 
an  interval  of  wakefulness,  but  he  seldom  slept  for  as  much 
as  nine  hours  without  waking. 

On  this  night  between  two  o'clock  and  three  it  seemed  as 
if  a  layer  of  sleep  were  gently  lifted  from  him.  He  sighed, 
stirred,  turned  over  and  began  to  dream. 

He  dreamed  confusedly  about  Dion,  and  there  were  pain 
and  apprehension  in  his  dream.  In  it  Dion  seemed  to  be 
himself  and  yet  not  himself,  to  be  near  and  at  the  same  time 
remote,  to  be  Jimmy's  friend  and  yet,  in  some  strange  and 
horrible  way,  hostile  to  Jimmy.  No  doubt  the  boy  was 
haunted  in  his  sleep  by  an  obscure  phantom  bred  of  that  pain- 
ful impression  of  the  morning,  when  his  friend  had  suddenly 
been  changed  in  the  pavilion,  changed  into  a  tragic  figure  from 
which  seemed  to  emanate  impalpable  things  very  black  and 
very  cold. 

In  the  dream  Jimmy's  mother  did  not  appear  as  an  active 
figure;  yet  the  dreamer  seemed  somehow  to  be  aware  of  her, 
to  know  faintly  that  she  was  involved  in  unhappy  circum- 
stances, that  she  was  the  victim  of  distresses  he  could  not 
fathom.  And  these  distresses  weighed  upon  him  like  a  burden, 
as  things  weigh  upon  us  in  dreams,  softly  and  heavily,  and 
with  a  sort  of  cloudy  awfulness.  He  wanted  to  strive  against 
them  for  his  mother,  but  he  was  held  back  from  action,  and 
Dion  seemed  to  have  something  to  do  with  this.  It  was  as  if 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  467 

his  friend  and  enemy,  Dion  Leith,  did  not  wish  his  mother  to 
be  released  from  unhappiness. 

Jimmy  moved,  lay  en  his  back  and  groaned.  His  eyelids 
fluttered.  Something  from  without,  something  from  a  distance, 
was  pulling  at  him,  and  the  hands  of  sleep,  too  inert,  perhaps, 
for  any  conflict,  relaxed  their  hold  upon  him.  Thoughts  from 
two  minds  in  a  dark  pavilion  were  stealing  upon  him,  were 
touching  him  here  and  there,  were  whispering  to  him. 

Another  layer  of  sleep  was  softly  removed  from  him. 

He  clenched  his  large  hands  —  he  had  already  the  hands 
and  feet  almost  of  the  man  he  would  some  day  grow  into  — and 
his  eyes  opened  wide  for  a  moment.  But  they  closed  again. 
He  was  not  awake  yet. 

At  three  o'clock  he  woke.  He  had  slept  for  six  hours  in 
the  villa  and  for  two  hours  in  the  forest.  He  lay  still  in  the 
dark  for  a  few  minutes.  A  faint  memory  of  his  dream  hung 
about  him  like  a  tattered  mist.  He  felt  anxious,  almost  appre- 
hensive, and  strained  his  ears  expectant  of  some  sound.  But 
the  silence  of  the  airless  night  was  deep  and  large  all  about 
him.  He  began  to  think  of  his  mother.  What  had  been  the 
matter  with  her?  Who,  or  what,  had  persecuted  her?  He 
realized  now  that  he  had  been  dreaming,  said  to  himself,  with 
a  boy's  exaggeration,  that  he  had  had  "  a  beastly  nightmare!  " 
Nevertheless  his  mother  still  appeared  to  him  as  the  victim 
of  distresses.  He  could  not  absolutely  detach  himself  from  the 
impressions  communicated  to  him  in  his  dream.  He  was 
obliged  to  think  of  his  mother  as  unhappy  and  of  Dion  Leith 
as  not  wholly  friendly  either  to  her  or  to  himself.  And  it  was 
all  quite  beastly. 

Presently,  more  fully  awake,  he  began  to  wonder  about  the 
time  and  to  feel  tremendously  thirsty,  as  if  he  could  "  drink 
the  jug." 

He  stretched  out  a  hand,  found  the  matches  and  struck  a 
light.  It  went  out  with  a  sort  of  feeble  determination. 

"  Damn !  "  he  muttered. 

He  struck  another  match  and  lit  the  candle.  His  silver 
watch  lay  beside  it,  and  marked  five  minutes  past  three. 
Jimmy  was  almost  angrily  astonished.  Only  that!  He  now 
felt  painfully  wide  awake,  as  if  his  sleep  were  absolutely 
finished.  What  was  to  be  done?  He  remembered  that  he 
had  slept  in  the  forest.  He  had  had  his  eight  hours.  Perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  of  his  present  wakefulness.  Anyhow,  he 
must  have  a  drink.  He  thrust  away  the  sheet,  rolled  out  of 


468  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

bed,  and  went  to  the  washhand-stand.  There  was  plenty  of 
water  in  his  bottle,  but  when  he  poured  it  into  the  tumbler 
he  found  that  it  was  quite  warm.  He  was  certain  warm  water 
wouldn't  quench  his  ardent  thirst.  Besides,  he  loathed  it. 
Any  chap  would!  How  beastly  everything  was! 

He  put  down  the  tumbler  without  drinking,  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  The  still  hot  darkness  which  greeted 
him  made  him  feel  again  the  obscure  distress  of  his  dream. 
He  was  aware  of  apprehension.  Dawn  could  not  be  so  very 
far  off;  yet  he  felt  sunk  to  the  lips  in  the  heavy  night. 

If  only  he  could  have  a  good  drink  of  something  very  cold! 
This  wish  made  him  think  again  of  his  mother.  He  knew 
she  did  not  require  much  sleep,  and  sometimes  read  during 
part  of  the  night;  he  also  knew  that  she  kept  some  iced  lemon- 
ade on  the  table  beside  her  bed.  Now  the  thought  of  his 
mother's  lemonade  enticed  him. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  stuck  his  feet  into  a  pair 
of  red  Turkish  slippers  without  heels,  buttoned  the  jacket  of 
his  pyjamas,  which  he  had  thrown  open  because  of  the  heat, 
took  his  candle  in  hand,  and  shuffled  —  he  always  shuffled 
when  he  had  on  the  ridiculous  slippers  —  to  the  door. 

There  he  paused. 

The  landing  was  fairly  wide.  It  looked  dreary  and  de- 
serted in  the  darkness  denned  by  the  light  from  his  candle. 
He  could  see  the  head  of  the  staircase,  the  shallow  wooden  steps 
disappearing  into  the  empty  blackness  in  which  the  ground 
floor  of  the  house  was  shrouded;  he  could  see  the  door  of  his 
mother's  bedroom.  As  he  stared  at  it,  considering  whether  his 
thirst  justified  him  in  waking  her  up  —  for,  if  she  were  asleep, 
he  felt  pretty  sure  she  would  wake  however  softly  he  crept  into 
her  room  —  he  saw  that  the  door  was  partly  open.  Perhaps 
his  mother  had  found  the  heat  too  great,  and  had  tried  to  create 
a  draught  by  opening  her  door.  There  was  darkness  in  the 
aperture.  She  wasn't  reading,  then.  Probably  she  was  asleep. 
He  was  infernally  thirsty;  the  door  was  open;  the  lemonade 
was  almost  within  reach;  he  resolved  to  risk  it.  Carefully 
shading  the  candle  with  one  hand  he  crept  across  the  landing, 
adroitly  abandoned  his  slippers  outside  the  door,  and  on  naked 
feet  entered  his  mother's  room. 

His  eyes  immediately  rested  on  the  tall  jug  of  lemonade, 
which  stood  on  a  small  table,  with  a  glass  and  some  books, 
beside  the  big,  low  bed.  He  stole  towards  it,  always  shielding 
the  candle  with  his  hand,  and  not  looking  at  the  bed  lest  his 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  469 

glance  might,  perhaps,  disturb  the  sleeper  he  supposed  to  be 
in  it.  He  reached  the  table,  and  was  about  to  lay  a  desirous 
hand  upon  the  jug,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that,  in  doing  this, 
he  would  expose  the  candle  ray.  Better  blow  the  candle  out! 
He  located  the  jug,  and  was  on  the  edge  of  action  —  his  lips 
were  pursed  for  the  puff  —  when  the  dead  silence  in  the  room 
struck  him.  Could  any  one,  even  his  remarkably  quiet  mother, 
sleep  without  making  even  the  tiniest  sound?  He  shot  a 
glance  at  the  bed.  There  was  no  one  in  it.  He  bent  down. 
It  had  not  been  slept  in  that  night. 

Jimmy  stood,  with  his  mouth  open,  staring  at  the  large, 
neat,  unruffled  bed.  What  the  dickens  could  the  mater  be  up 
to?  She  must,  of  course,  be  sitting  up  in  her  small  sitting- 
room  next  door  to  the  bedroom.  Evidently  the  heat  had  made 
her  sleepless. 

He  took  a  pull  at  the  lemonade,  went  to  the  sitting-room 
door  and  softly  opened  it,  at  the  same  time  exclaiming,  "  I  say, 
mater " 

Darkness  and  emptiness  confronted  him. 

He  shut  the  door  rather  hurriedly,  and  again  stood  con- 
sidering. Something  cracked.  He  started,  and  the  candle 
rattled  in  his  hand.  A  disagreeable  sensation  was  stealing 
upon  him.  He  would  not,  of  course,  have  acknowledged  that 
he  felt  in  a  bit  of  a  funk,  even  to  himself,  but  he  was  aware  of 
an  unpleasant  feeling  of  loneliness,  almost  of  desertion.  The 
servants  slept  in  a  small  wing  of  the  villa,  shut  off  from  the 
main  part  of  the  house  by  double  doors.  Mrs.  Clarke  de- 
tested hearing  the  servants  at  night,  and  had  taken  good  care 
to  make  such  hearing  impossible.  Jimmy  began  to  feel  isolated. 

Where  could  the  mater  be?     And  what  could  she  be  doing? 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  returning  to  his  room,  shutting 
himself  in  and  waiting  for  the  dawn,  which  would  change 
everything  —  would  make  everything  seem  quite  usual  and 
reasonable.  But  something  in  the  depths  of  him,  speaking  in 
a  disagreeably  distinct  voice,  remarked,  "That's  right!  Be  a 
funk  stick!  "  And  his  young  cheeks  flushed  red,  although 
he  was  alone.  Immediately  he  went  out  on  to  the  landing, 
thrust  his  feet  again  into  the  red  slippers,  and  boldly  started 
down  the  stairs  into  the  black  depths  below.  Holding  the 
candle  tightly,  and  trying  to  shuffle  with  manly  decision,  he 
explored  the  sitting-rooms  and  the  dining-room.  All  of  them 
were  empty  and  dark. 

Now  Jimmy  began  to  feel  "  rotten."    Horrid  fears  for  his 


470  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

mother  bristled  up  in  his  mind.  His  young  imagination  got 
to  work  and  summoned  up  ugly  things  before  him.  He  saw 
his  mother  ravished  away  from  him  by  unspeakable  men  — • 
Turks,  Armenians,  Greeks,  Albanians  —  God  knows  whom  — 
and  carried  off  to  some  unknown  and  frightful  fate;  he  saw 
her  dead,  murdered;  he  saw  her  dead,  stricken  by  some  sudden 
and  horrible  illness.  His  heart  thumped.  He  could  hear  it. 
It  seemed  to  be  beating  in  his  ears.  And  then  he  began  to 
feel  brave,  to  feel  an  intrepidity  of  desperation.  He  must  act. 
That  was  certain.  It  was  his  obvious  business  to  jolly  well 
get  to  work  and  do  something.  His  first  thought  was  to  rush 
upstairs,  to  rouse  the  servants,  to  call  up  Sonia,  his  mother's 
confidential  maid,  to  —  the  pavilion! 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  pavilion,  and  all  the  books 
on  its  shelves.  His  mother  might  be  there.  She  might  have 
been  sleepless,  might  have  felt  sure  she  couldn't  sleep,  and 
so  have  stayed  up.  She  might  be  reading  in  the  pavilion,  or 
perhaps  sitting  out  in  the  garden  in  the  darkness.  She  was 
afraid  of  nothing.  Darkness  and  solitude  wouldn't  hinder 
her  from  wandering  about  if  the  fancy  to  wander  took  her. 
She  wouldn't,  of  course,  go  outside  the  gates,  but  —  he  now 
felt  sure  she  was  somewhere  in  the  garden. 

He  looked  round.  He  was  standing  by  the  grand  piano  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  he  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  that 
the  French  window  which  gave  on  to  the  rose  garden  was  open. 
That  settled  it.  He  put  the  candle  down,  hurried  out  into 
the  garden  and  called,  "Mater!  " 

No  voice  replied  except  the  fountain's  voice.  The  purring 
water  rose  in  the  darkness  and  fell  among  the  lilies,  rose  and 
fell,  active  and  indifferent,  like  a  living  thing  withdrawn  from 
him,  wrapped  in  its  own  mystery. 

"Mater!  "  he  called  again,  in  a  louder,  more  resolute,  voice. 
"Mater!  Mater!" 

In  an  absolutely  still  night  a  voice  can  travel  very  far. 
On  the  highest  terrace  of  the  garden  in  the  blackness  of  the 
pavilion  Mrs.  Clarke  moved  sharply.  She  sat  straight  up  on 
the  divan,  rigid,  with  her  hands  pressed  palm  downwards  on 
the  cushions.  Dion  had  heard  nothing,  and  did  not  under- 
stand the  reason  for  her  abrupt,  almost  violent,  movement. 

"  Why  ...   ?  "  he  began. 

She  caught  his  wrist  and  held  it  tightly,  compressing  her 
fingers  on  it  with  a  fierce  force  that  amazed  him. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  471 

."Mater!" 

Had  he  really  heard  the  word,  or  had  he  imagined  it? 

"Mater!" 

He  had  heard  it. 

"It's  Jimmy!  " 

She  had  her  thin  lips  close  to  his  ear.  She  still  held  his 
wrist  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"  He's  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  He'll  come  up  here. 
He  won't  wait.  Go  down  and  meet  him." 

"But " 

"Go  down!  I'll  hide  among  the  trees.  Let  him  come 
up  here,  or  bring  him  up.  He  must  come.  Be  sure  he  comes 
inside.  While  you  go  I'll  light  the  lamp.  I  can  do  it  in  a 
moment.  You  couldn't  sleep.  You  came  here  to  read.  Of 
course  you  know  nothing  about  me.  Keep  him  here  for  five 
or  ten  minutes.  You  can  come  down  then  and  help  him  to 
look  for  me.  Go  at  once." 

She  took  away  her  hand. 

"My  whole  future  depends  upon  you!" 

Dion  got  up  and  went  out.  As  he  went  he  heard  her  strike 
a  match. 

Scarcely  knowing  for  a  moment  what  he  was  doing,  acting 
mechanically,  in  obedience  to  instinct,  but  always  feeling  a 
sort  of  terrible  driving  force  behind  him,  he  traversed  the 
terrace  on  which  the  pavilion  stood,  passed  the  great  plane 
tree  and  the  wooden  seat,  and  began  to  descend.  As  he  did  so 
he  heard  again  Jimmy's  voice  crying: 

"Mater!" 

"  Jimmy!  "  he  called  out,  in  a  loud  voice,  hurrying  on. 

As  the  sound  died  away  he  knew  it  had  been  nonchalant 
Surely  she  had  made  it  so! 

"Jimmy!"  he  called  again.  "What's  up?  What's  the 
matter?" 

There  was  no  immediate  reply,  but  in  the  deep  silence  Dion 
heard  hurrying  steps,  and  then: 

"Mr.  Leith!" 

"Hallo!" 

"Mr.  Leith  — it  is  you,  is  it?" 

"Yes.     What  on  earth's  the  matter?" 

"Stop  a  sec!     I ' 

The  feet  were  bounding  upward.  Almost  directly,  in 
pyjamas  and  the  slippers,  which  somehow  still  remained  with 
him,  Jimmy  stood  by  Dion  in  the  dark,  breathing  hard. 


472  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Jimmy,  what's  the  matter?    What  has  happened?" 

"  I  say,  why  are  you  here?  " 

"  I  couldn't  sleep.  The  night  was  so  hot.  I  had  nothing 
to  read  in  my  rooms.  Besides,  they're  stuck  down  right  against 
the  quay.  You  know  your  mother's  kind  enough  to  let  me  have 
a  key  of  the  garden  gate.  I  thought  I  might  get  more  air  on 
the  top  terrace.  I  was  reading  in  the  pavilion  when  I  thought 
I  heard  a  call." 

"Then  the  mater  isn't  there?" 

"  Your  mother?  " 

"Yes!" 

"  Of  course  not.     Come  on  up!  " 

Dion  took  the  boy  by  the  arm  with  decision,  and  slowly  led 
him  upwards. 

"What's  this  about  your  mother?  Do  you  mean  she  isn't 
asleep?  " 

"Asleep?  She  isn't  in  her  bedroom!  She  hasn't  been 
there!" 

"Hasn't  been  there?" 

"Hasn't  been  to  bed  at  all!  I've  been  to  her  sitting-room 
—  you  know,  upstairs  —  she  isn't  there.  I've  been  in  all  the 
rooms.  She  isn't  anywhere.  She  must  be  somewhere  about 
here." 

They  had  arrived  in  front  of  the  pavilion  backed  by  trees. 
Looking  in,  Dion  saw  a  lighted  lamp.  The  slide  of  jeweled 
glass  had  been  removed  from  it.  A  white  ray  fell  on  an  open 
book  laid  on  a  table. 

"  I  was  reading  here  " —  he  looked  — "  a  thing  called  '  The 
Kasidah.'  Sit  down!"  He  pulled  the  boy  down.  "Now 
what  is  all  this?  Your  mother  must  be  in  the  house." 

"  But  I  tell  you  she  isn't!  " 

Dion  had  sat  down  between  Jimmy  and  the  opening  on  to 
the  terrace.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to  have  induced 
the  boy  to  sit  with  his  back  to  the  terrace  and  his  face  turned 
towards  the  room.  It  was  too  late  to  do  that  now. 

"  I  tell  you  she  isn't!  "  Jimmy  repeated,  with  a  sort  of  almost 
fierce  defiance. 

He  was  staring  hard  at  Dion.  His  hair  was  almost  wildly 
disordered,  and  his  face  looked  pale  and  angry  in  the  ray  of 
the  lamp.  Dion  felt  that  there  was  suspicion  in  his  eyes. 
Surely  those  eyes  were  demanding  of  him  the  woman  who  was 
hiding  among  the  trees. 

"Where  have  you  looked?"  he  said. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  473 

"  I  tell  you  I've  looked  everywhere,"  said  Jimmy  doggedly. 

"  Did  your  mother  go  up  to  bed  when  you  did  ?  " 

"  No.     I  went  very  early.     I  was  so  infernally  sleepy." 

"  Where  did  you  leave  her?  " 

"  In  the  drawing-room.  She  was  playing  the  piano.  But 
what's  the  good  of  that?  What  time  did  you  come  here?  " 

"  I!     Oh,  not  till  very  late  indeed." 

"  Were  there  any  lights  showing  when  you  came  ?  " 

"  Lights  ?  No !  But  it  was  ever  so  much  too  late  for 
that." 

"Did  you  go  on  to  the  terrace  by  the  drawing-room?  " 

"  No.  I  came  straight  up  here.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
that  any  one  would  be  up  at  such  an  hour.  Besides,  I  didn't 
want  to  disturb  any  one,  especially  your  mother." 

"  Well,  just  now  I  found  the  drawing-room  window  wide 
open,  and  mater's  bed  hasn't  been  touched.  What  do  you 
make  of  that?  " 

Before  Dion  could  reply  the  boy  abruptly  started  up. 

"  I  heard  something.     I  know  I  did." 

As  naturally  as  he  could  Dion  got  between  Jimmy  and  the 
opening  on  to  the  terrace,  and,  forestalling  the  boy,  looked  out. 
He  saw  nothing;  he  could  not  have  said  with  truth  that  any 
definite  sound  reached  his  ears;  but  he  felt  that  at  that  exact 
moment  Mrs.  Clarke  escaped  from  the  terrace,  and  began  to 
glide  down  towards  the  house  below. 

"There's  nothing!  Come  and  see  for  yourself,"  he  said 
casually. 

Jimmy  pushed  by  him,  then  stood  perfectly  still,  staring  at 
the  darkness  and  listening  intently. 

"  I  don't  hear  it  now!  "  he  acknowledged  gruffly. 

"  What  did  you  think  you  heard  ?  " 

"  I  did  hear  something.     I  couldn't  tell  you  what  it  was." 

"Have  you  looked  all  through  the  garden?" 

"  You  know  I  haven't.  You  heard  me  calling  down  at  the 
bottom.  You  must  have,  because  you  answered  me." 

"  We'd  better  have  a  good  look  now.  Just  wait  one  minute 
while  I  put  out  the  lamp.  I'll  put  away  the  book  I  was  read- 
ing, too." 

"  Right  you  are!  "  said  the  boy,  still  gruffly. 

He  waited  on  the  terrace  while  Dion  went  into  the  pavilion. 
As  Dion  took  up  "  The  Kasidah  "  he  glanced  down  at  the 
page  at  which  Mrs.  Clarke  had  chanced  to  set  the  book  open, 
and  read: 


474  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Do  what  thy  manhood  bids  thee  do,  from 
None  but  self  expect  applause " 

With  a  feeling  of  cold  and  abject  soul-nausea  he  shut  the 
book,  put  it  away  on  a  bookshelf  in  which  he  saw  a  gap,  and 
went  to  turn  out  the  lamp.  As  the  flame  flickered  and  died 
out  he  heard  Jimmy's  foot  shift  on  the  terrace. 

"  Do  what  thy  manhood  bids  thee  do " 

Dion  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  dark.  He  was  in  a  dark- 
ness greater  than  any  which  reigned  in  the  pavilion.  His  soul 
seemed  to  him  to  be  pressing  against  it,  to  be  hemmed  in  by  it 
as  by  towering  walls  of  iron.  For  an  instant  he  shut  his  eyes. 
And  when  he  did  that  he  saw,  low  down,  a  little  boy's  figure, 
two  small  outstretched  hands  groping. 

Robin ! 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Mr.  Leith?    What's  the  matter?" 

"  I  was  just  seeing  that  the  lamp  was  thoroughly  out." 

«  Well " 

Dion  came  out. 

"  We'll  look  all  over  the  garden.  But  if  your  mother  had 
been  in  it  she  must  have  heard  you  calling  her.  I  did,  although 
I  was  inside  there  reading." 

"  I  know.     I  thought  of  that  too,"  returned  Jimmy. 

And  Dion  fancied  that  the  boy's  voice  was  very  cold;  Dion 
fancied  this  but  he  was  not  sure.  His  conscience  might  be 
tricking  him.  He  hoped  that  it  was  tricking  him. 

"  We'd  better  look  among  the  trees,"  he  said.  "  And  then 
we'll  go  to  the  terrace  below." 

"  It's  no  use  looking  among  the  trees,"  Jimmy  returned. 
"  If  she  was  up  here  she  must  have  heard  us  talking  all  this 
time." 

Abruptly  he  led  the  way  to  the  steps  near  the  plane  tree. 
Dion  followed  him  slowly.  Was  it  possible  that  Jimmy  had 
guessed?  Was  it  possible  that  Jimmy  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  his  mother  escaping?  The  boy's  manner  was  surely  almost 
hostile. 

They  searched  the  garden  in  silence,  and  at  length  found 
themselves  by  the  fountain  close  to  the  French  window  of  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Your  mother  must  be  in  the  house,"  said  Dion  firmly. 

"  But  I  know  she  isn't!  "  Jimmy  retorted,  with  a  sort  of  dull 
fixed  obstinacy. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  475 

"Did  you  rouse  the  servants?" 

"  No." 

"  Where  do  they  sleep  ?  " 

"  Away  from  us,  by  themselves." 

"  You'd  better  go  and  look  again.  If  you  can't  find  your 
mother  perhaps  you'd  better  wake  the  servants." 

"  I  know,"  said  Jimmy,  in  a  voice  that  had  suddenly 
changed,  become  brighter,  more  eager — "  I'll  go  to  Sonia." 

"  Your  mother's  maid  ?  That's  it.  She  may  know  some- 
thing. I'll  wait  down  here  at  the  window.  Got  a  candle?  " 

"  Yes.     I  left  it  in  there  by  the  piano." 

He  felt  his  way  in  and,  almost  immediately,  struck  a  light. 
The  candle  flickered  across  his  face  and  his  disordered  hair  as 
he  disappeared. 

Dion  waited  by  the  fountain. 

Where  would  Mrs.  Clarke  be  ?  How  would  she  explain  mat- 
ters? Would  she  have  had  time  to ?  Oh  yes!  She 

would  have  had  time  to  be  ready  with  some  quite  simple,  yet 
quite  satisfactory,  piece  of  deception.  Jimmy  would  find  her, 
and  she  would  convince  him  of  all  that  it  was  necessary  he 
should  be  convinced  of. 

Dion's  chin  sank  down  and  his  head  almost  drooped.  He 
felt  mortally  tired  as  he  waited  here.  Already  a  very  faint 
grayness  of  the  coming  dawn  was  beginning  to  filter  in  among 
the  darknesses. 

Another  day  to  face!  How  could  he  face  it?  He  had,  he 
supposed,  been  what  is  called  "  true  "  to  the  woman  who  had 
given  herself  to  him,  but  how  damnably  false  he  had  been  to 
himself  that  night! 

Meanwhile  Jimmy  went  upstairs,  frowning  and  very  pale. 
He  went  again  to  his  mother's  bedroom  and  found  it  empty. 
The  big  bed,  turned  down,  had  held  no  sleeper.  Nothing  had 
been  changed  in  the  room  since  he  had  been  away  in  the  garden. 
He  did  not  trouble  to  look  once  more  into  the  adjoining  sitting- 
room,  but  hurried  towards  the  servants'  quarters.  The  double 
doors  were  shut.  Softly  he  opened  them  and  passed  through 
into  a  wooden  corridor.  At  the  far  end  of  it  were  two  rooms 
sacred  to  Sonia,  the  Russian  maid.  The  first  room  she  slept 
in;  the  second  was  a  large  airy  chamber  lined  with  cupboards. 
In  this  she  worked.  She  was  a  very  clever  needlewoman, 
expert  in  the  mysteries  of  dressmaking. 

As  Jimmy  drew  near  to  the  door  of  Sonia's  workroom  he 
heard  a  low  murmur  of  voices  coming  from  within.  Evidently 


476  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Sonia  was  there,  talking  to  some  one.     He  crept  up  and  listened. 

Very  tranquil  the  voices  sounded.  They  were  talking  in 
French.  One  was  his  mother's,  and  he  heard  her  say: 

"  Another  five  minutes,  Sonia,  and  perhaps  I  shall  be  ready 
for  bed.  At  last  I'm  beginning  to  feel  as  if  I  might  be  able 
to  sleep.  If  only  I  were  like  Jimmy!  He  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  the  torments  of  insomnia." 

"Poor  Madame!  "  returned  Sonia,  in  her  rather  thick,  but 
pleasantly  soft,  voice.  "  Your  head  a  little  back.  That's 
better!  " 

Jimmy  was  aware  of  an  odd,  very  faint,  sound.  He  couldn't 
make  out  what  it  was. 

"Mater!"  he  said. 

And  he  tapped  on  the  door. 

"  Who's  that?  "  said  Sonia's  voice. 

"It's  Jimmy!" 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  maid,  and  he  saw  his  mother 
in  a  long,  very  thin  white  dressing-gown,  seated  in  an  arm- 
chair before  a  mirror.  Her  colorless  hair  flowed  over  the  back 
of  the  chair,  against  which  her  little  head  was  leaning,  sup- 
ported by  a  silk  cushion.  Her  face  looked  very  white  and 
tired,  and  the  lids  drooped  over  her  usually  wide-open  eyes,  giv- 
ing her  a  strange  expression  of  languor,  almost  of  drowsiness. 
Sonia  held  a  silver-backed  brush  in  each  hand. 

"Monsieur  Jimmy!  "  she  said. 

"Jimmy!"  said  Mrs.  Clarke.     "What's  the  matter?" 

She  lifted  her  head  from  the  cushion,  and  sat  straight  up. 
But  she  still  looked  languid. 

"What  is  it?     Are  you  ill?" 

"No,  mater!     But  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere!  " 

There  was  a  boyish  reproach  in  his  voice. 

"Looking  for  me  in  the  middle  of  the  night!     Why?  " 

Jimmy  began  to  explain  matters. 

"  At  last  I  thought  I'd  look  in  the  garden.  I  shouted  out 
for  you,  and  who  should  answer  but  Mr.  Leith?  "  he  presently 
said. 

His  mother  —  he  noticed  it  —  woke  up  fully  at  this  point  in 
the  narrative. 

"Mr.  Leith!  "  she  said,  with  strong  surprise.  "How  could 
he  answer  you?  " 

"  He  was  up  in  the  pavilion  reading  a  book." 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  frankly  astonished.  Her  eyes  traveled 
to  Sonia,  whose  broad  face  was  also  full  of  amazement. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  477 

"At  this  hour!"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  He  couldn't  sleep  either,"  said  Jimmy,  quite  simply. 
"  He's  waiting  out  there  now  to  know  whether  I've  found  you." 

Mrs.  Clarke  smiled  faintly. 

"What  a  to  do!"  she  said,  with  just  a  touch  of  gentle 
disdain.  "  And  all  because  I  suffer  from  insomnia.  Run 
down  to  him,  Jimmy,  and  tell  him  that  as  I  felt  it  was  useless 
to  go  to  bed  I  sat  by  the  fountain  till  I  was  weary,  then  read 
in  my  sitting-room,  and  finally  came  to  Sonia  to  be  brushed 
into  sleep.  Set  his  mind  at  rest  about  me  if  you  can." 

She  smiled  again. 

Somehow  that  smile  made  Jimmy  feel  very  small. 

"  And  go  back  to  bed,  dear  boy." 

She  put  out  one  hand,  drew  him  to  her,  and  gave  him  a 
gentle  kiss  with  lips  which  felt  very  calm. 

"I'm  sorry  you  were  worried  about  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  mater!"  said  Jimmy,  rather  awk- 
wardly. "  I  didn't  know  what  to  think.  You  see " 

"  Of  course  you  couldn't  guess  I  was  having  my  hair  brushed. 
Now  go  straight  to  bed,  after  you've  told  Mr.  Leith.  I'm 
coming  too  in  a  minute." 

As  Jimmy  left  the  room  Sonia  was  again  at  work  with  the 
two  hair-brushes. 

A  moment  later  Jimmy  reappeared  at  the  French  window 
of  the  drawing-room.  Dion  lifted  his  head,  but  did  not  move 
from  the  place  where  he  was  standing  close  to  the  fountain. 

"  It's  all  right,  Mr.  Leith,"  said  Jimmy.  "  I've  found 
mater." 

"  Where  was  she?  " 

"  In  Sonia's  room  having  her  hair  brushed." 

Dion  stared  towards  him  but  said  nothing. 

"  She  told  me  I  was  to  set  your  mind  at  rest." 

"Did  she?" 

"  Yes.  I  believe  she  thought  us  a  couple  of  fools  for  kicking 
up  such  a  dust  about  her." 

Dion  said  nothing. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I've  an  idea  girls  and  women  often  think 
they  can  laugh  at  us,"  added  Jimmy.  "  Anyhow,  it'll  be  a 
jolly  long  time  before  I  put  myself  in  a  sweat  about  the  mater 
again.  I  thought  —  I  don't  know  what  I  thought,  and  all  the 
time  she  was  half  asleep  and  having  her  hair  brushed.  She 
made  me  feel  ass  number  one.  Good  night." 

"  Good  night." 


478  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

The  boy  shut  the  window,  bent  down  and  bolted  it  on  the 
inside. 

Dion  looked  at  the  gray  coming  of  the  new  day. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LIVERPOOL  has  a  capacity  for  looking  black  which  is, 
perhaps,  only  surpassed  by  Manchester's,  and  it  looked 
its  blackest  on  a  day  at  the  end  of  March  in  the  follow- 
ing year,  as  the  afternoon  express  from  London  roared  into 
the  Lime  Street  Station.  The  rain  was  coming  down;  it  was 
small  rain,  and  it  descended  with  a  sort  of  puny  determination ; 
it  was  sad  rain  without  any  dash,  any  boldness;  it  had 
affinities  with  the  mists  which  sweep  over  stretches  of  moor- 
land, but  its  power  of  saturation  was  remarkable.  It  soaked 
Liverpool.  It  issued  out  of  blackness  and  seemed  to  carry  a 
blackness  with  it  which  descended  into  the  very  soul  of  the  city 
and  lay  coiled  there  like  a  snake. 

Lady  Ingleton  was  very  sensitive  to  her  surroundings,  and 
as  she  lifted  the  rug  from  her  knees,  and  put  away  the  book 
she  had  been  reading,  she  shivered.  A  deep  melancholy  floated 
over  her  and  enveloped  her.  She  thought,  "  Why  did  I  come 
upon  this  adventure?  What  is  it  all  to  do  with  me?  "  But 
then  the  face  of  a  man  rose  up  before  her,  lean,  brown,  wrinkled, 
ravaged,  with  an  expression  upon  it  that  for  a  long  time  had 
haunted  her,  throwing  a  shadow  upon  her  happiness.  And 
she  felt  that  she  had  done  right  to  come.  Impulse,  perhaps, 
had  driven  her;  sentiment  rather  than  reason  had  been  her 
guide.  Nevertheless,  she  did  not  regret  her  journey.  Even  if 
nothing  good  came  of  it  she  would  not  regret  it.  She  would 
have  tried  for  once  at  some  small  expense  to  herself  to  do  a 
worthy  action.  She  would  for  once  have  put  all  selfishness 
behind  her. 

A  white-faced  porter,  looking  anxious  and  damp,  appeared 
at  the  door  of  the  corridor.  Lady  Ingleton's  French  maid 
arrived  from  the  second  class  with  Turkish  Jane  on  her  arm. 

"  Oh,  Miladi,  how  black  it  is  here!  "  she  exclaimed,  twisting 
her  pointed  little  nose.  "  The  black  it  reaches  the  heart." 

That  was  exactly  what  Lady  Ingleton  was  thinking,  but  she 
said,  in  a  voice  less  lazy  than  usual: 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  479 

"  There's  a  capital  hotel,  Annette.  We  shall  be  very 
comfortable." 

"  Shall  we  stay  here  long,  Miladi  ?  " 

"  No;  but  I  don't  know  how  long  yet.     Is  Jane  all  right?  " 

"  She  has  been  looking  out  of  the  window,  Miladi,  the  whole 
way.  She  is  in  ecstasy.  Dogs  have  no  judgment,  Miladi." 

When  Lady  Ingleton  was  in  her  sitting-room  at  the  Adelphi 
Hotel,  and  had  had  the  fire  lighted  and  tea  brought  up,  she 
asked  to  see  the  manager  for  a  moment.  He  came  almost  im- 
mediately, a  small  man,  very  smart,  very  trim,  self-possessed 
as  an  attache. 

"  I  hope  you  are  quite  comfortable,  my  lady,"  he  said,  in  a 
thin  voice  which  held  no  note  of  doubt.  "  Can  I  do  anything 
for  you?" 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  knew  the  address  of  some  one 
I  wish  to  send  a  note  to  —  Mr.  Robertson.  He's  a  clergyman 
who " 

"  Do  you  mean  Father  Robertson,  of  Holy  Cross,  Manxby 
Street,  my  lady?  " 

"  Of  Holy  Cross;  yes,  that's  it." 

"  He  lives  at " 

"  Wait  a  moment.     I'll  take  it  down." 

She  went  to  the  writing-table  and  took  up  a  pen. 

"  Now,  please !  " 

"  The  Rev.  George  Robertson,  Holy  Cross  Rectory,  Manxby 
Street,  my  lady." 

"  Thank  you  very  much." 

"  Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you,  my  lady?  " 

"  Please  send  me  up  a  messenger  in  twenty  minutes.  Mr. 
Robertson  is  in  Liverpool,  I  understand?" 

"  I  believe  so,  my  lady.  He  is  generally  here.  Holidays 
and  pleasure  are  not  much  in  his  way.  The  messenger  will  be 
up  in  twenty  minutes." 

He  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  and  went  softly 
out,-  holding  himself  very  erect. 

Lady  Ingleton  sat  down  by  the  tea-table.  Annette  was 
unpacking  in  the  adjoining  bedroom,  and  Turkish  Jane  was 
reposing  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  hearth. 

"What  would  Carey  think  of  me,  if  he  knew?"  was  her 
thought,  as  she  poured  out  the  tea. 

Sir  Carey  was  at  his  post  in  Constantinople.  She  had  left 
him  and  come  to  England  to  see  her  mother,  who  had  been  very 
ill,  but  who  was  now  much  better.  When  she  had  left  Con- 


480  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

stantinople  she  had  not  known  she  was  coming  to  Liverpool, 
but  she  had  known  that  something  was  intruding  upon  her 
happiness,  was  worrying  at  her  mind.  Only  when  she  found 
herself  once  more  in  England  did  she  understand  that  she 
could  not  return  to  Turkey  without  making  an  effort  to  do  a 
good  deed.  She  had  very  little  hope  that  her  effort  would  be 
efficacious,  but  she  knew  that  she  had  to  make  it. 

It  was  quite  a  new  role  for  her,  the  role  of  Good  Samaritan. 
She  smiled  faintly  as  she  thought  that.  How  would  she  play 
it? 

After  tea  she  wrote  this  note: 

"  ADELPHI  HOTEL,  Tuesday 

"  DEAR  MR.  ROBERTSON, —  As  you  will  not  know  who  I  am, 
I  must  explain  myself.  My  husband,  Sir  Carey  Ingleton,  is 
Ambassador  at  Constantinople.  Out  there  we  have  made 
acquaintance  with  Mr.  Dion  Leith,  who  had  the  terrible  mis- 
fortune to  kill  his  little  boy  nearly  a  year  and  a  half  ago. 
I  want  very  much  to  speak  to  you  about  him.  I  will  explain 
why  when  I  see  you  if  you  have  the  time  to  spare  me  an  inter- 
view. I  would  gladly  welcome  you  here,  or  I  could  come  to 
you.  Which  do  you  prefer?  I  am  telling  the  messenger  to 
wait  for  an  answer.  To  be  frank,  I  have  come  to  Liverpool 
on  purpose  to  see  you. —  Yours  sincercely, 

"  DELIA  INGLETON  " 

The  messenger  came  back  without  an  answer.  Father  Rob- 
ertson was  out,  but  the  note  would  be  given  to  him  as  soon  as 
he  came  home. 

That  evening,  just  after  nine  o'clock,  he  arrived  at  the  hotel, 
and  sent  up  his  name  to  Lady  Ingleton. 

"  Please  ask  him  to  come  up,"  she  said  to  the  German  waiter 
who  had  mispronounced  his  name. 

As  she  waited  for  her  visitor  she  was  conscious  of  a  faint 
creeping  of  shyness  through  her.  It  made  her  feel  oddly 
girlish.  When  had  she  last  felt  shy?  She  could  not  remem- 
ber. It  must  have  been  centuries  ago. 

The  German  waiter  opened  the  door  and  a  white-haired 
man  walked  in.  Directly  she  saw  him  Lady  Ingleton  lost  her 
unusual  feeling.  As  she  greeted  him,  and  made  her  little 
apology  for  bothering  him,  and  thanked  him  for  coming  out 
at  night  to  see  a  stranger,  she  felt  glad  that  she  had  obeyed 
her  impulse  and  had  been,  for  once,  a  victim  to  altruism. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  481 

When  she  looked  at  his  eyes  she  knew  that  she  would  not 
mind  saying  to  him  all  she  wanted  to  say  about  Dion  Leith. 
They  were  eyes  which  shone  with  charity;  and  they  were  some- 
thing else  —  they  were  totally  incurious  eyes.  Perhaps  from 
perversity  Lady  Ingleton  had  always  rebelled  against  giving 
to  curious  people  the  exact  food  they  were  in  search  of. 

"  He  won't  be  greedy  to  know,"  she  thought.  "  And  so  I 
shan't  mind  telling  him." 

Unlike  a  woman,  she  came  at  once  to  the  point.  Although 
she  could  be  very  evasive  she  could  also  be  very  direct. 

"  You  know  Mrs.  Dion  Leith,"  she  said.  "  My  friend 
Tippie  Chetwinde,  Mrs.  Willie  Chetwinde,  told  me  she  was 
living  here.  She  came  here  soon  after  the  death  of  her  child, 
I  believe." 

"  Yes,  she  did,  and  she  has  been  here  ever  since." 

"Do  you  know  Dion  Leith,  Mr.  Robertson?"  she  asked, 
leaning  forward  in  her  chair  by  the  fire,  and  fixing  her  large 
eyes,  that  looked  like  an  Italian's,  upon  him. 

"  No,  I  have  never  seen  him.  I  hoped  to,  but  the  tragedy 
of  the  child  occurred  so  soon  after  his  return  from  South  Africa 
that  I  never  had  an  opportunity." 

"  Forgive  me  for  correcting  you,"  she  said,  gently  but  very 
firmly.  "  But  it  is  not  the  tragedy  of  a  child.  It's  the  tragedy 
of  a  man.  I  am  going  to  talk  very  frankly  to  you.  I  make 
no  apology  for  doing  so.  I  am  what  is  called  " —  she  smiled 
faintly  — "  a  woman  of  the  world,  and  you,  I  think,  are  an 
unworldly  man.  Because  I  am  of  the  world,  and  you,  in 
spirit  " —  she  looked  at  him  almost  deprecatingly  — "  are  not 
of  it,  I  can  say  what  I  have  come  here  to  try  to  say.  I  couldn't 
say  it  to  a  man  of  the  world,  because  I  could  never  give  a 
woman  away  to  such  a  man.  Tell  me  though,  first,  if  you 
don't  mind  —  do  you  care  for  Mrs.  Dion  Leith  ?  " 

"  Very  much,"  said  Father  Robertson,  simply  and  warmly. 

"  Do  you  care  for  her  enough  to  tell  her  the  truth  ?  " 

"  I  never  wish  to  tell  her  anything  else." 

Suddenly  Lady  Ingleton's  face  flushed,  her  dark  eyes  flashed 
and  then  filled  with  tears,  and  she  said  in  a  voice  that  shook 
with  emotion: 

"  Dion  Leith  killed  a  body  by  accident,  the  body  of  his  little 
boy.  She  is  murdering  a  soul  deliberately,  the  soul  of  her 
husband." 

She  did  not  know  at  all  why  she  was  so  suddenly  and  so 
violently  moved.  She  had  not  expected  this  abrupt  access  of 


482  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

feeling.  It  had  rushed  upon  her  from  she  knew  not  where. 
She  was  startled  by  it. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  care,"  she  commented,  as  if 
half  ashamed  of  herself. 

Then  she  added,  with  a  touch  of  almost  shy  defiance: 

"  But  I  do  care,  I  do  care.     That's  why  I've  come  here." 

"  You  are  right  to  care  if  it  is  so,"  said  Father  Robertson. 

"  Such  lots  of  women  wouldn't,"  she  continued,  in  a  quite 
different,  almost  cynical,  voice.  "  But  that  man  is  an  excep- 
tional man  —  not  in  intellect,  but  in  heart.  And  I'm  a  very 
happy  woman.  Perhaps  you  wonder  what  that  has  to  do  with 
it.  Well,  sometimes  I  see  things  through  my  happiness,  just 
because  of  it;  sometimes  I  see  unhappiness  through  it." 

Her  voice  had  changed  again,  had  become  much  softer.  She 
drew  her  chair  a  little  nearer  to  the  fire. 

"  Do  you  ever  receive  confessions,  Mr.  Robertson  —  as  a 
priest,  I  mean?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  very  often." 

"  They  are  sacred,  I  know,  even  in  your  church." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  without  emphasis. 

His  lack  of  emphasis  decided  her.  Till  this  moment  she 
had  been  undecided  about  a  certain  thing,  although  she  herself 
perhaps  was  not  fully  aware  of  her  hesitation. 

"  I  want  to  do  a  thing  that  I  have  never  yet  done,"  she 
said.  "  I  want  to  be  treacherous  to  a  friend,  to  give  a  friend 
away.  Will  you  promise  to  keep  my  treachery  secret  forever? 
Will  you  promise  to  treat  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about 
her  as  if  I  told  it  to  you  in  the  confessional?  " 

"  If  you  tell  it  to  me  I  will.  But  why  must  you  tell  it  to 
me?  I  don't  like  treachery.  It's  an  ugly  thing." 

"  I  can't  help  that.  I  really  came  here  just  for  that  —  to 
be  treacherous." 

She  looked  into  the  fire  and  sighed. 

"  I've  covered  a  great  sin  with  my  garment,"  she  murmured 
slowly,  "  and  I  repent  me !  " 

Then,  with  a  look  of  resolve,  she  turned  to  her  white-haired 
companion. 

"  I've  got  a  friend,"  she  said  — "  a  woman  friend.  Her 
name  is  Cynthia  Clarke.  (I'm  in  the  confessional  now!) 
You  may  have  heard  of  her.  She  was  in  a  cause  celebre  some 
time  ago.  Her  husband  tried  to  divorce  her,  poor  man,  and 
failed." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  483 

"  No,  I  never  heard  her  name  before,"  said  Father  Robert- 
son. 

"  You  don't  read  causes  celebres.  You  have  better  things 
to  do.  Well,  she's  my  friend.  I  don't  exactly  know  why. 
Her  husband  was  Councillor  in  my  husband's  Embassy.  But 
I  knew  her  before  that.  We  always  got  on.  She  has  peculiar 
fascination  —  a  sort  of  strange  beauty,  a  very  intelligent  mind, 
and  the  strongest  will  I  have  ever  known.  She  has  virtues 
of  a  kind.  She  never  speaks  against  other  women.  If  she 
knew  a  secret  of  mine  I  am  sure  she  would  never  tell  it.  She 
is  thoroughbred.  I  find  her  a  very  interesting  woman.  There 
is  absolutely  no  one  like  her.  She's  a  woman  one  would  miss. 
That's  on  one  side.  On  the  other  —  she's  a  cruel  woman ;  she's 
a  consummate  hypocrite;  she's  absolutely  corrupt.  You  wonder 
why  she's  my  friend  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  say  so." 

"  Nor  look  it.  But  you  do.  Well,  I  suppose  I  haven't 
many  scruples  except  about  myself.  And  I  have  been  trained 
in  the  let-other-people-alone  tradition.  Besides,  Cynthia 
Clarke  never  told  me  anything.  No  one  has  told  me.  Being 
a  not  stupid  woman,  I  just  know  what  she  is.  I'll  put  it 
brutally,  Mr.  Robertson.  She  is  a  huntress  of  men.  That  is 
what  she  lives  for.  But  she  deceives  people  into  believing 
that  she  is  a  purely  mental  woman.  All  the  men  whom  she 
doesn't  hunt  believe  in  her.  Even  women  believe  in  her.  She 
has  good  friends  among  women.  They  stick  to  her.  Why  ? 
Because  she  intends  them  to.  She  has  a  conquering  will. 
And  she  never  tells  a  secret  —  especially  if  it  is  her  own.  In 
her  last  sin  —  for  it  is  a  sin  —  I  have  been  a  sort  of  accom- 
plice. She  meant  me  to  be  one  and  " —  Lady  Ingleton  slightly 
shrugged  her  shoulders  — "  I  yielded  to  her  will.  I  don't 
know  why.  I  never  know  why  I  do  what  Cynthia  Clarke 
wishes.  There  are  people  like  that;  they  just  get  what  they 
want,  because  they  want  it  with  force,  I  suppose.  Most  of  us 
are  rather  weak,  I  think.  Cynthia  Clarke  hunted  Dion  Leith 
in  his  misery,  and  I  helped  her.  Being  an  ambassadress  I 
have  social  influence  on  the  Bosporus,  and  I  used  it  for  Cynthia. 
I  knew  from  the  very  first  what  she  was  about,  what  she 
meant  to  do.  Directly  she  mentioned  Dion  Leith  to  me  and 
asked  me  to  invite  him  to  the  Embassy  and  be  kind  to  him  I 
understood.  But  I  didn't  know  Dion  Leith  then.  If  I  had 
thoroughly  known  him  I  should  never  have  been  a  willing  cat's- 


484  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

paw  in  a  very  ugly  game.  But  once  I  had  begun  —  I  took 
them  both  for  a  yachting  trip  —  I  did  not  know  how  to  get 
out  of  it  all.  On  that  yachting  trip  I  realized  how  that  man 
was  suffering  and  what  he  was.  I  have  never  before  known  a 
man  capable  of  suffering  so  intensely  as  Dion  Leith  suffers. 
Does  his  wife  know  how  he  loves  her?  Can  she  know  it? 
Can  she  ever  have  known  it?  " 

Father  Robertson  was  silent.  As  she  looked  at  his  eyelids 
—  his  eyes  no  longer  met  hers  with  their  luminous  glowing  sin- 
cerity —  Lady  Ingleton  realized  that  he  was  the  Confessor. 

"  Sometimes  I  have  been  on  the  verge  of  saying  to  him, 
'  Go  back  to  England,  go  to  your  wife.  Tell  her,  show  her 
what  she  has  done.  Put  up  a  big  fight  for  the  life  of  your 
soul.'  But  I  have  never  been  able  to  do  it.  A  grief  like  that 
is  holy  ground,  isn't  it?  One  simply  can't  set  foot  upon  it. 
Besides,  I  scarcely  ever  see  Dion  Leith  now.  He's  gone  down, 
I  think,  gone  down  very  far." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  In  Constantinople.  I  saw  him  by  chance  in  Stamboul, 
near  Santa  Sophia,  just  before  I  left  for  England.  Oh,  how 
he  has  changed!  Cynthia  Clarke  is  destroying  him.  I  know 
it.  Once  she  told  me  he  had  been  an  athlete  with  ideals. 
But  now  —  now !  " 

Again  the  tears  started  into  her  eyes.  Father  Robertson 
looked  up  and  saw  them. 

"  Poor,  poor  fellow !  "  she  said.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  him 
destroyed.  Some  men  —  well,  they  seem  almost  entirely  body. 
But  he's  so  different!  " 

She  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire. 

"  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Leith,"  she  said.  "  I  once  heard  her 
sing  in  London.  She  is  extraordinarily  beautiful.  At  that 
time  she  looked  radiant.  What  did  you  say?  " 

"  Please  go  on,"  Father  Robertson  said,  very  quietly. 

"  And  she  had  a  wonderful  expression  of  joyous  goodness 
which  marked  her  out  from  other  women.  You  have  a  regard 
for  her,  and  you  are  good.  But  you  care  for  truth,  and  so 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  the  truth.  Mrs.  Leith  behaved  wickedly 
in  casting  her  husband  out  of  her  life.  She  may  be  a  good 
woman,  but  she  has  done  a  wicked  action.  Can't  you  make 
her  see  it?  Or  shall  I  try  to?  " 

"  You  wish  to  see  her?  " 

"  I  am  ready  to  see  her." 

Father   Robertson  again  looked   down.     He   seemed  to  be 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  485 

thinking  deeply,  to  be  genuinely  lost  in  thought.  Lady  Ingle- 
ton  noticed  this  and  did  not  disturb  him.  For  some  minutes 
he  sat  without  moving.  At  last  he  looked  up  and  put  a  ques- 
tion to  Lady  Ingleton  which  surprised  her.  He  said: 

"  Are  you  absolutely  certain  that  your  friend  Mrs.  Clarke 
and  Dion  Leith  have  been  what  people  choose  to  call  lovers  ?  " 

"  Have  been  and  are  —  absolutely  certain.  I  could  not 
prove  it,  but  I  know  it.  He  lives  on  in  Constantinople  only 
for  her." 

"  And  you  think  he  has  deteriorated?  " 

"  Terribly.  I  know  it.  The  other  day  he  looked  almost 
degraded;  as  men  look  when  they  let  physical  things  get  abso- 
lute domination  over  them.  It's  an  ugly  subject,  but  —  you 
and  I  know  of  these  things." 

In  her  voice  there  was  a  sound  of  delicate  apology.  It  was 
her  tribute  to  the  serene  purity  of  which  she  was  aware  in 
this  man. 

Again  he  seemed  lost  in  thought.  She  trusted  in  his  power 
of  thought.  He  was  a  man  —  she  was  certain  of  it  —  who 
would  find  the  one  path  which  led  out  of  the  maze.  His 
unself-conscious  intentness  was  beautiful  in  its  unconventional 
simplicity,  and  was  a  tribute  to  her  sincerity  which  she  was 
subtle  enough  to  understand,  and  good  woman  enough  to  ap- 
preciate. He  was  concentrated  not  upon  her  but  upon  the 
problem  which  was  troubling  her. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  to  Liverpool,"  he  said  at  length. 
"  Very  glad." 

He  smiled,  and  she,  without  exactly  knowing  why,  smiled 
back  at  him.  And  as  she  did  so  she  felt  extraordinarily  simple, 
almost  like  a  child. 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay?  " 

"  Till  I  know  whether  I  can  do  any  good,"  she  said,  "  till 
I  have  done  it,  if  that  is  possible." 

"  Without  mentioning  any  names,  may  I,  if  I  think  it  wise, 
tell  Mrs.  Leith  of  the  change  in  her  husband?  " 

"  Oh,  but  would  it  be  wise  to  say  exactly  what  the  nature 
of  the  change  is?  I've  always  heard  that  she  is  a  woman 
with  ideals,  an  exceptionally  pure-natured  woman.  She  might 
be  disgusted,  even  revolted,  perhaps,  if " 

"  Forgive  me!  "  Father  Robertson  interrupted,  rather 
abruptly.  "What  was  your  intention  then?  What  did  you 
mean  to  tell  Mrs.  Leith  if  you  saw  her?  " 

"  Of  his  great  wretchedness,  of  his  broken  life  —  I  suppose 


486  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

I  —  I  should  have  trusted  to  my  instinct  what  to  do  when  I 
saw  her." 

"Ah!" 

"  But  I  can  leave  it  to  you,"  she  said,  but  still  with  a  faint 
note  of  hesitation,  of  doubt.  "  You  know  her." 

"  Yes,  I  know  her." 

He  paused.  Then,  with  an  almost  obstinate  firmness,  a 
sort  of  pressure,  he  added,  "  Have  I  your  permission  —  I  may 
not  do  it  —  to  tell  Mrs.  Leith  that  her  husband  has  been 
unfaithful  to  her  with  some  one  in  Constantinople?" 

Lady  Ingleton  slightly  reddened;  she  looked  down  and 
hesitated. 

"  It  may  be  necessary  if  your  purpose  in  coming  here  is  to 
be  achieved,"  said  Father  Robertson,  still  with  pressure. 

"  You  may  do  whatever  you  think  best,"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh. 

He  got  up  to  go. 

"  Would  you  mind  very  much  staying  on  here  for  two  or 
three  days,  even  for  a  week,  if  necessary  ?  " 

"  No,  no." 

He  smiled. 

"  A  whole  week  of  Liverpool!  "  he  said. 

"  How  many  years  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

"  A  good  many.     I'm  almost  losing  count." 

When  he  was  gone  Lady  Ingleton  sat  for  a  long  while  before 
the  fire. 

The  sad  influence  of  the  blackness  of  rainy  Liverpool  had 
lifted  from  her.  Her  impulse  had  received  a  welcome  which 
had  warmed  her. 

"  I  love  that  man,"  she  thought.  "  Carey  would  love  him 
too." 

He  had  said  very  little,  and  how  loyal  he  had  been  in  his 
silence,  how  loyal  to  the  woman  she  had  attacked.  In  words 
he  had  not  defended  her,  but  somehow  he  had  conveyed  to 
Lady  Ingleton  a  sense  of  his  protective  love  and  immense  pity 
for  the  woman  who  had  been  bereft  of  her  child.  How  he 
had  conveyed  this  she  could  not  have  said.  But  as  she  sat 
there  before  the  fire  she  was  aware  that,  since  Father  Robert- 
son's visit,  she  felt  differently  about  Dion  Leith's  wife.  Mys- 
teriously she  began  to  feel  the  sorrow  of  the  woman  as  well  as, 
and  side  by  side  with,  the  sorrow  of  the  man. 

"  If  it  had  been  my  child?  "  she  thought.  "  If  my  husband 
had  done  it?" 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  487 

She  slept  badly  that  night.  Nevertheless  the  strong  and 
gentle  influence  of  Father  Robertson  had  not  left  her.  It  com- 
panioned her,  prevented  her  from  feeling  homeless,  quite  deso- 
late in  this  unfamiliar  city  which  held  no  friends  of  hers. 

The  following  day  passed,  and  no  message  came  to  her  from 
Father  Robertson.  She  was  expectant,  then  a  little  anxious, 
then  depressed,  and  finally  bored.  She  looked  on  at  herself 
as  the  Good  Samaritan  and  she  began  to  smile  at  herself.  The 
spectacle  of  herself  waiting  about  in  a  Liverpool  hotel  was 
really  rather  absurd.  Annette  was  frankly  amazed  and  could 
not  make  out  what  they  were  doing  in  this  rainy  place  where 
nobody  bothered  about  them.  Even  Turkish  Jane  drifted  into 
ennui.  Her  ecstasy  had  already  died  out. 

It  was  all  very  tiresome. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  a  note  came  from  Father 
Robertson.  It  was  very  brief.  He  begged  Lady  Ingleton  not 
to  leave  Liverpool.  He  did  not  explain  why  he  wished  her 
to  stay;  he  did  not  mention  Mrs.  Dion  Leith,  or  hint  at  any 
activity  on  his  part  connected  in  any  way  with  her.  Yet  Lady 
Ingleton  immediately  felt  reconciled  to  her  situation.  She  did 
not  know  what  was  happening,  but  she  felt  positive  that  the 
white-haired  man,  who  had  paid  her  the  compliment  of  think- 
ing about  her  unselfish  anxiety  instead  of  about  her  personality 
as  a  woman,  was  fighting  her  battle. 

He  was  in  fact  striving  for  two  souls.  And  Rosamund's, 
in  religion,  needed  rescuing  no  less  than  Dion's  in  the  per- 
versity and  vice  which  emanated  like  a  miasma  from  the  woman 
whom  Sir  Carey  had  thought  of  strangely  for  a  moment  as  the 
Goddess  of  Death. 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN  he  left  Lady  Ingleton,  Father  Robertson  went 
home  in  the  rainy  blackness  to  the  plain  little  house 
in  an  ugly  street  where  he  had  dwelt  for  many 
years,  shut  himself  in,  knelt  down  before  a  wooden  crucifix 
in  his  bedroom  and  prayed.     Afterwards  for  a  long  time  he 
meditated  upon  his  knees. 

In  his  meditation  he  considered  the  stubborn  quality  of  the 
human  soul  which  often  seems  forced  by  some  inherent  power 
to  resist  emancipation. 


488  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Rosamund  Leith  had  a  stubborn  soul.  He  knew  it.  She 
was  stubborn  in  love  and  stubborn  in  resisting  love.  She  had 
power  to  dominate,  but  she  was  often  dominated  by  powers 
within  herself.  The  very  strength  of  her  character  often  seemed 
to  hold  her  in  bondage. 

Although  he  loved  her  Father  Robertson  secretly  condemned 
her  as  Lady  Ingleton  condemned  her.  For  he  had  no  moral 
blindness.  His  sense  of  justice  was  one  of  the  keenest  weapons 
in  his  armory.  The  pity  that  was  in  him,  the  mercy  which 
drew  people  to  him,  never  blunted  that  weapon.  He  never 
loved  men  and  women  as  they  were  not,  but  always  as  they 
were.  And  he  would  give  a  right  verdict  even  if  it  were  against 
the  one  he  loved  best. 

Lady  Ingleton  was  right.  Rosamund's  grief  had  made  her 
unjust,  cruel,  even  destructive.  She  was  a  good  woman  who 
had  done  an  evil  thing.  She  honestly  believed  that  she  had 
given  herself  to  God,  but,  in  doing  so  —  if  she  had  done  it  — 
she  had  been  false  to  a  promise  made  before  God.  And  she 
was  seeking  God  apart  from  the  man  to  whom  God  had  joined 
her. 

Was  not  that  a  quest  in  the  dark? 

But  there  was  the  great  difficulty  of  the  human  feeling. 

Father  Robertson  had  had  a  wide  experience  of  men  and 
women,  and  he  knew  the  uselessness  of  trying  to  force  feeling. 
Rosamund's  terrible  grief  had  revealed  to  him  the  extent  of 
her  love  for  Robin.  It  was  a  love  of  the  very  entrails  of  a 
woman.  It  was  compounded  of  the  animal  and  of  the  spir- 
itual. It  had  its  roots  in  the  roots  of  her.  As  much  as  a  man 
can  understand  such  a  love  Father  Robertson  understood  it. 
But  what  had  been  Rosamund's  feeling  towards  her  husband 
in  the  days  before  Robin?  Such  a  woman  must  surely  have 
loved  the  man  she  married.  And  yet,  if  she  had  loved  him, 
how  could  she  have  punished  him  so  fearfully  for  a  tragic  ac- 
cident? But  when  he  came  to  that  question  Father  Robertson 
was  always  assailed  by  the  sense  of  his  limitations  as  a  man. 
With  all  his  sympathy,  with  all  his  imagination,  he  was  doubt- 
Jess  wholly  unable  to  conceive  what  the  typical  mother-woman 
feels  about  her  only  child.  He  did  not  possess  the  key  which 
alone,  perhaps,  could  open  the  door  of  Rosamund's  inner  sanc- 
tuary. And  that  was  why  he  was  perhaps  impotent  to  save 
Rosamund  from  the  evil  thing  which  persistently  marred  her 
goodness,  and  which,  he  believed,  added  to  her  misery  the  se- 
cret torture  of  a  sick  conscience. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  489 

Since  the  death  of  Robin  and  Rosamund's  arrival  in  Liver- 
pool, Father  Robertson  had  made  acquaintance  with  her  sis- 
ter and  with  the  mother  of  Dion.  And  both  these  women  had 
condemned  Rosamund  for  what  she  had  done,  and  had  begged 
him  to  try  to  bring  about  a  change  in  her  heart  Both  of 
them,  too,  had  dwelt  upon  the  exceptional  quality  of  Dion's 
love  for  his  wife.  Mrs.  Leith  had  been  unable  to  conceal  the 
bitterness  of  her  feeling  against  Rosamund.  The  mother  in 
her  was  outraged,  as  the  mother  in  Rosamund,  in  a  different 
way,  was  outraged.  Beatrice  Daventry  had  shown  no  bitter- 
ness. She  loved  and  understood  her  sister  too  well  to  rage 
against  her  for  anything  that  she  did  or  left  undone.  But  this 
very  love  of  her  sister,  so  clearly  shown,  had  made  her  con- 
demnation of  Rosamund's  action  the  more  impressive.  And 
her  pity  for  Dion  was  supreme.  Through  Beatrice  Father  Rob- 
ertson had  gained  an  insight  into  Dion's  love,  and  into  another 
love,  too;  but  of  that  he  scarcely  allowed  himself  even  to  think. 
There  are  purities  so  intense  that,  like  fire,  they  burn  those  who 
would  handle  them,  however  tenderly.  About  Beatrice  Father 
Robertson  felt  that  he  knew  something  he  dared  not  know.  In- 
deed, he  was  hardly  sincere  about  that  matter  with  himself. 
Perhaps  this  was  his  only  insincerity. 

With  his  friend,  Canon  Wilton,  too,  he  had  spoken  of  Rosa- 
mund, and  had  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  sort  of  noble 
anger.  Now,  in  his  little  room,  as  he  knelt  in  meditation,  he 
remembered  a  saying  of  the  Canon's,  spoken  in  the  paneled 
library  at  Welsley:  "Leith  has  a  great  heart.  When  will  his 
wife  understand  its  greatness?  " 

Father  Robertson  pressed  his  thin  hands  upon  his  closed 
eyes.  He  longed  for  guidance  and  he  felt  almost  distressed. 
Rosamund  had  submitted  herself  to  him,  had  given  herself  into 
his  hands,  but  tacitly  she  had  kept  something  back.  She  had 
never  permitted  him  to  direct  her  in  regard  to  her  relation  with 
her  husband.  It  was  in  regard  to  her  relation  with  God  that 
she  had  submitted  herself  to  him. 

How  grotesque  that  was! 

Father  Robertson's  face  burned. 

Before  Rosamund  had  come  to  him  she  had  closed  the  book 
of  her  married  life  with  a  frantic  hand.  And  Father  Robert- 
son had  left  the  book  closed.  He  saw  his  delicacy  now  as 
cowardice.  In  his  religious  relation  with  Rosamund  he  had 
been  too  much  of  a  gentleman!  When  Mrs.  Leith,  Beatrice, 
Canon  Wilton  had  appealed  to  him,  he  had  said  that  he  would 


490  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

do  what  he  could  some  day,  but  that  he  felt  time  must  be  given 
to  Rosamund,  a  long  time,  to  recover  from  the  tremendous 
shock  she  had  undergone.  He  had  waited.  Something  im- 
perative had  kept  him  back  from  ever  going  fully  with  Rosa- 
mund into  the  question  of  her  separation  from  her  husband. 
He  had  certainly  spoken  of  it,  but  he  had  never  discussed  it, 
had  never  got  to  the  bottom  of  it,  although  he  had  felt  that 
some  day  he  must  be  quite  frank  with  her  about  it. 

Some  day!  No  doubt  he  had  been  waiting  for  a  propitious 
moment,  that  moment  which  never  comes.  Or  had  his  in- 
stinct told  him  that  anything  he  could  say  upon  that  subject 
to  Rosamund  would  be  utterly  impotent,  that  there  was  a 
threshold  his  influence  could  not  cross?  Perhaps  really  his 
instinct  had  told  him  to  wait,  and  he  was  not  a  moral  coward. 
For  to  strive  against  a  woman's  deep  feeling  is  surely  to  beat 
against  the  wind.  When  men  do  certain  things  all  women  look 
upon  them  with  an  inevitable  disdain,  as  children  being  foolish 
in  the  dark. 

Had  he  secretly  feared  to  seem  foolish  in  Rosamund's  eyes  ? 

He  wondered,  genuinely  wondered. 

On  the  following  morning  he  wrote  to  Rosamund  and  asked 
her  to  come  to  the  vicarage  at  any  hour  when  she  was  free.  He 
had  something  important  to  say  to  her.  She  answered,  fixing 
three-thirty.  Exactly  at  that  time  she  arrived  in  Manxby  Street 
and  was  shown  into  Father  Robertson's  study. 

Rosamund  was  changed,  greatly  changed,  but  in  a  subtle 
rather  than  a  fiercely  definite  way.  She  had  not  aged  as  many 
women  age  when  overtaken  by  sorrow.  Her  pale  yellow  hair 
was  still  bright.  There  was  no  gray  in  it  and  it  grew  vigorously 
upon  her  classical  head  as  if  intensely  alive.  She  still  looked 
physically  strong.  She  was  still  a  young  and  beautiful  woman. 
But  all  the  radiance  had  gone  out  from  her.  She  had  been  full 
of  it;  now  she  was  empty  of  it. 

In  the  walled  garden  at  Welsley,  as  she  paced  the  narrow 
walks  and  listened  to  the  distant  murmur  of  the  organ,  and 
the  faint  sound  of  the  Dresden  Amen,  in  her  joy  she  had 
looked  sometimes  almost  like  a  nun.  She  had  looked  as  if 
she  had  the  "  vocation  "  for  religion.  Now,  in  her  "  sister's  " 
dress,  she  had  not  that  inner  look  of  calm,  of  the  spirit  lying 
still  in  Almighty  arms,  which  so  often  marks  out  those  who 
have  definitely  abandoned  the  ordinary  life  of  the  world  for 
the  dedicated  life.  Rosamund  had  taken  no  perpetual  vows; 
she  was  free  at  any  moment  to  withdraw  from  the  Sisterhood 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  491 

in  which  she  was  living  with  many  devoted  women  who  la- 
bored among  the  poor,  and  who  prayed,  as  some  people  work, 
with  an  ardor  which  physically  tired  them.  But  neverthe- 
less she  had  definitely  retired  from  all  that  means  life  to  the 
average  woman  of  her  type  and  class,  with  no  intention  of  ever 
going  back  to  it.  She  had  taken  a  step  towards  the  mystery 
which  many  people  think  of  casually  on  appointed  days,  and 
which  many  people  ignore,  or  try  to  ignore.  Yet  now  she  did 
not  look  as  if  she  had  the  vocation.  When  she  had  lived  in 
the  world  she  had  seemed,  in  spite  of  all  her  joie  de  vivre, 
of  all  her  animation  and  vitality,  somehow  apart  from  it. 
Xow  she  seemed,  somehow,  apart  from  the  world  of  religion, 
from  the  calm  and  laborious  world  in  which  she  had  chosen 
to  dwell.  She  looked  indeed  almost  strangely  pure,  but  there 
was  in  her  face  an  expression  of  acute  restlessness,  perpetually 
seen  among  those  who  are  grasping  at  passing  pleasures,  scarcely 
ever  seen  among  those  who  have  deliberately  resigned  them. 

This  was  surely  a  woman  who  had  sought  and  who  had  not 
found,  who  was  uneasy  in  self-sacrifice,  who  had  striven,  who 
was  striving  still,  to  draw  near  to  the  gates  of  heaven,  but  who 
had  not  come  upon  the  path  which  led  up  the  mountain-side 
to  them.  Sorrow  was  stamped  on  the  face,  and  something  else, 
too  —  the  seal  of  that  corrosive  disease  of  the  soul,  dissatisfac- 
tion with  self. 

This  was  not  Rosamund ;  this  was  a  woman  with  Rosamund's 
figure,  face,  hair,  eyes,  voice,  gestures,  movements  —  one  who 
would  be  Rosamund  but  for  some  terrible  flaw. 

She  was  alone  in  the  little  study  for  a  few  minutes  before 
Father  Robertson  came.  She  did  not  sit  down,  but  moved 
about,  looking  now  at  this  thing,  now  at  that.  In  her  white 
forehead  there  were  two  vertical  lines  which  were  never  smoothed 
out.  An  irreligious  person,  looking  at  her  just  then,  might 
have  felt  moved  to  say,  with  a  horrible  irony,  "  And  can  God  do 
no  more  than  that  for  the  woman  who  dedicates  her  life  to 
His  service?  " 

The  truth  of  the  whole  matter  lay  in  this :  that  whereas  once 
God  had  seemed  to  stand  between  Rosamund  and  Dion,  now 
Dion  seemed  to  stand  between  Rosamund  and  God. 

But  even  Father  Robertson  did  not  know  this. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  the  Father  came  in. 

Instantly  Rosamund  noticed  that  he  locked  slightly  ill  at 
ease,  almost,  indeed,  embarrassed.  He  shook  hands  with  her  in 
his  gentle  way  and  made  a  few  ordinary  remarks  about  little 


492  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

matters  in  which  they  were  mutually  interested.  Then  he  asked 
her  to  sit  down,  sat  down  near  her  and  was  silent. 

"What  is  it?  "  she  said,  at  last. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  there  was  something  almost  piercing 
in  his  eyes  which  she  had  never  noticed  in  them  before. 

"  Last  night,"  he  said,  "  when  I  came  home  I  found  here  a 
note  from  a  stranger,  asking  me  to  visit  her  at  the  Adelphi 
Hotel  where  she  was  staying.  She  wrote  that  she  had  come 
to  Liverpool  on  purpose  to  see  me.  I  went  to  the  hotel  and  had 
an  interview  with  her.  This  interview  concerned  you." 

"  Concerned  me?  "  said  Rosamund. 

Her  voice  did  not  sound  as  if  she  were  actively  surprised. 
There  was  a  lack  of  tone  in  it.  It  sounded,  indeed,  almost 
dry. 

"  Yes.     Did  you  ever  hear  of  Lady  Ingleton?  " 

After  an  instant  of  consideration  Rosamund  said : 

"  Yes.  I  believe  I  met  her  somewhere  once.  Isn't  she  mar- 
ried to  an  ambassador?  " 

"  To  our  Ambassador  at  Constantinople." 

"  I  think  I  sang  once  at  some  house  where  she  was,  in  the 
days  when  I  used  to  sing." 

"  She  has  heard  you  sing." 

"  That  was  it  then.     But  what  can  she  want  with  me?  " 

"  Your  husband  is  in  Constantinople.  She  knows  him 
there." 

Rosamund  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  yellow  hair.  When  he 
saw  that  painful  wave  of  red  go  over  her  face  Father  Robertson 
looked  away.  All  the  delicacy  in  him  felt  the  agony  of  her  out- 
raged reserve.  Her  body  had  stiffened. 

"  I  must  speak  about  this,"  he  said.  "  Forgive  me  if  you 
can.  But  even  if  you  cannot,  I  must  speak." 

She  looked  down.     Her  face  was  still  burning. 

"  You  have  let  me  know  a  great  deal  about  yourself,"  he 
went  on.  "  That  fact  doesn't  give  me  any  right  to  be  curious. 
On  the  contrary!  But  I  think,  perhaps,  your  confidence  has 
given  me  a  right  to  try  to  help  you  spiritually  even  at  the  cost 
of  giving  you  great  mental  pain.  For  a  long  time  I  have  felt 
that  perhaps  in  my  relation  to  you  I  have  been  morally  a  cow- 
ard." 

Rosamund  looked  up. 

"  You  could  never  be  a  coward,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  know  that.  Nobody  knows  that,  perhaps,  ex- 
cept myself.  However  that  may  be,  I  must  not  play  the  coward 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  493 

now.  Lady  Ingleton  met  your  husband  in  Turkey.  She  brings 
very  painful  news  of  him." 

Rosamund  clasped  her  hands  together  and  let  them  lie  on 
her  knees.  She  was  looking  steadily  at  Father  Robertson. 

"  His  —  his  misery  has  made  such  an  impression  upon  her 
that  she  felt  obliged  to  come  here.  She  sent  for  me.  But  her 
real  object  in  coming  was  to  see  you,  if  possible.  Will  you  see 
her?" 

"  No,  no;  I  can't  do  that.     I  don't  know  her." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  she  said.  She  asked  me 
if  you  had  ever  understood  how  much  your  husband  loves  you. 
Her  exact  words  were,  '  Does  his  wife  know  how  he  loves  her? 
Can  she  know  it  ?  Can  she  ever  have  known  it  ?  ' ! 

All  the  red  had  died  away  from  Rosamund's  face.  She  had 
become  very  pale.  Her  eyes  were  steady.  She  sat  without 
moving,  and  seemed  to  be  listening  with  fixed,  even  with 
strained,  attention. 

"  And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  me  something  which  might 
seem  to  a  great  many  people  to  be  quite  contradictory  of  what 
she  had  just  said  —  and  she  said  it  with  the  most  profound  con- 
viction. She  told  me  that  your  husband  has  fallen  very  low." 

"  Fallen ?  "  Rosamund  said,  in  a  dim  voice. 

"  Just  before  she  left  Constantinople  she  saw  him  in  Stam- 
boul  by  chance.  She  said  he  had  the  dreadful  appearance  that 
men  have  when  they  are  entirely  dominated  by  physical  things." 

"  Dion !  "  she  said. 

And  there  was  sheer  amazement  in  her  voice  now. 

After  an  instant  she  added: 

"  I  don't  believe  it.     It  wasn't  Dion." 

"  I  must  tell  you  something  more,"  said  Father  Robertson 
painfully.  "  Lady  Ingleton  knows  that  your  husband  has  been 
unfaithful  to  you;  she  knows  the  woman  with  whom  he  has 
been  unfaithful.  That  unfaithfulness  continues.  So  she  af- 
firms. And  in  spite  of  that,  she  asks  me  whether  you  can  know 
how  much  your  husband  loves  you." 

While  he  had  been  speaking  he  had  been  looking  down. 
Now  he  heard  a  movement,  a  rustling.  He  looked  up  quickly. 
Rosamund  was  going  towards  the  door. 

"  Please  —  don't  —  don't !  "  she  whispered,  turning  her  face 
away. 

And  she  went  out. 

Father  Robertson  did  not  follow  her. 

Early  in  the  following  morning  he  received  this  note : 


494  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  ST.  MARY'S  SISTERHOOD,  LIVERPOOL, 

Thursday 

"  DEAR  FATHER  ROBERTSON, —  I  don't  think  I  can  see  Lady 
Ingleton.  I  am  almost  sure  I  can't.  Perhaps  she  has  gone  al- 
ready. If  not,  how  long  does  she  intend  to  stay  here  ? 

"R.  L." 

The  Father  communicated  with  Lady  Ingleton,  and  that  eve- 
ning let  Rosamund  know  that  Lady  Ingleton  would  be  in  Liver- 
pool for  a  few  more  days. 

When  Rosamund  read  his  letter  she  wished,  or  believed  that 
she  wished,  that  Lady  Ingleton  had  gone.  Then  this  matter 
which  tormented  her  would  be  settled,  finished  with.  There 
would  be  nothing  to  be  done,  and  she  could  take  up  her  mo- 
notonous life  again  and  forget  this  strange  intrusion  from  the 
outside  world,  forget  this  voice  from  the  near  East  which  had 
told  such  ugly  tidings.  Till  now  she  had  not  even  known 
where  Dion  was.  She  knew  he  had  given  up  his  business  in 
London  and  had  left  England;  but  that  was  all.  She  had  re- 
fused to  have  news  of  him.  She  had  made  it  plainly  under- 
stood long  ago,  when  the  wound  was  fresh  in  her  soul,  that 
Dion's  name  was  never  to  be  mentioned  in  letters  to  her.  She 
had  tried  by  every  means  to  blot  his  memory  out  of  her  mind 
as  she  had  blotted  his  presence  out  of  her  life.  In  this  effort 
she  had  totally  failed.  Dion  had  never  left  her  since  he  had 
killed  Robin.  In  the  flesh  he  had  pursued  her  in  the  walled 
garden  at  Welsley  on  that  black  night  of  November  when  for 
her  the  whole  world  had  changed.  In  another  intangible, 
mysterious  guise  he  had  attended  her  ever  since.  He  had  been 
about  her  path  and  about  her  bed.  Even  when  she  knelt  at 
the  altar  in  the  Supreme  Service  he  had  been  there.  She  had 
felt  his  presence  as  she  touched  the  wafer,  as  she  lifted  the  cup. 
Through  all  these  months  she  had  learnt  to  know  that  there 
are  those  whom,  once  we  have  taken  them  in,  we  cannot  cast  out 
of  our  lives. 

Since  the  death  of  Robin,  in  absence  Dion  had  assumed  a 
place  in  her  life  which  he  had  never  occupied  in  the  days  of 
their  happiness.  Sometimes  she  had  bitterly  resented  this; 
sometimes  she  had  tried  to  ignore  it ;  sometimes,  like  a  cross,  she 
had  taken  it  up  and  tried  to  bear  it  with  patience  or  with  brav- 
ery. She  had  even  prayed  against  it. 

Never  were  prayers  more  vain  than  those  which  she  put  up 
against  this  strange  and  terrible  possession  of  herself  by  the 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  495 

man  she  had  tried  to  cast  out  of  her  life.  Sometimes  even  it 
seemed  to  her  that  when  she  prayed  thus  Dion's  power  to  af- 
fect her  increased.  It  was  as  if  mysteriously  he  drew  nearer 
to  her,  as  if  he  enveloped  her  with  an  influence  from  which 
she  could  not  extricate  herself.  There  were  hours  in  the  night 
when  she  felt  afraid  of  him.  She  knew  that  wherever  he  was, 
however  far  off,  his  mind  was  concentrated  upon  her.  She 
grew  to  realize,  as  she  had  never  realized  before,  what  mental 
power  is.  She  had  separated  her  body  from  Dion's,  but  his 
mind  would  not  leave  her  alone.  Often  she  was  conscious  of 
hostility.  When  she  strove  to  give  herself  absolutely  and  en- 
tirely to  the  life  of  religion  and  of  charity  she  was  aware  of  a 
force  holding  her  back.  This  force  —  so  it  seemed  to  her  — 
would  not  permit  her  to  enter  into  the  calm  and  the  peace  of 
the  dedicated  life.  She  was  like  some  one  looking  in  at  a 
doorway,  desirous  of  entering  a  room.  She  saw  the  room 
clearly;  she  saw  others  enjoying  its  warmth  and  its  shelter  and 
its  serene  and  guarded  tranquillity;  but  she  was  unable  to  cross 
the  threshold. 

That  warm  and  sheltered  room  was  not  for  her.  And  it 
was  Dion's  force  which  held  her  back  from  entering  it  and  from 
dwelling  in  it. 

She  could  not  give  herself  wholly  to  God  because  of  Dion. 
Of  her  struggle,  of  her  frustration,  of  her  mental  torment 
in  this  connexion  she  had  never  spoken  to  Father  Robertson. 
Even  in  confession  she  had  been  silent.  He  knew  of  her 
mother-agony;  he  did  not  know  of  the  stranger,  more  subtle 
agony  beneath  it.  He  did  not  know  that  whereas  the  one  agony 
with  the  lapse  of  time  was  not  passing  away  —  it  would  never 
do  that  —  but  was  becoming  more  tender,  more  full  of  tears 
and  of  sweet  recollections,  the  other  agony  grew  harsher,  more 
menacing. 

Rosamund  had  gradually  come  to  feel  that  Robin  had  been 
taken  out  of  her  arms  for  some  great,  though  hidden,  reason. 
And  because  of  this  feeling  she  was  learning  to  endure  his 
loss  with  a  sort  of  resignation.  She  often  thought  that  per- 
haps she  had  been  allowed  to  have  this  consolation  because  she 
had  made  an  immense  effort.  When  Robin  died  she  had  driven 
Dion,  who  had  killed  her  child,  out  of  her  life,  but  she  had 
succeeded  in  saying  to  God,  "  Thy  will  be  done !  "  She  had 
said  it  at  first  as  a  mere  formula,  had  repeated  it  obstinately 
again  and  again,  without  meaning  it  at  all,  but  trying  to  mean 
it,  meaning  to  mean  it.  She  had  made  a  prodigious,  a  truly 


496  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

heroic  effort  to  conquer  her  powerfully  rebellious  nature,  and, 
in  this  effort,  she  had  been  helped  by  Father  Robertson.  He 
knew  of  the  anger  which  had  overwhelmed  her  when  her  mother 
had  died,  of  how  she  had  wished  to  hurt  God.  He  knew  that, 
with  bloody  sweat,  she  had  destroyed  that  enemy  within  her. 
She  had  wished  to  submit  to  the  will  of  God  when  Robin  had 
been  snatched  from  her,  and  at  last  she  had  actually  sub- 
mitted. It  was  a  great  triumph  of  the  spirit.  But  perhaps  it 
had  left  her  exhausted.  At  any  rate  she  had  never  been  able 
to  forgive  God's  instrument,  her  husband.  And  so  she  had 
never  been  able  to  know  the  peace  of  God  which  many  of  these 
women  by  whom  she  was  surrounded  knew.  In  her  misery  she 
contemplated  their  calm.  To  labor  and  to  pray  —  that  seemed 
enough  to  many  of  them,  to  most  of  them.  She  had  known 
calm  in  the  garden  at  Welsley;  in  the  Sisterhood  she  knew  it 
not. 

The  man  who  was  always  with  her  assassinated  calm.  She 
felt  strangely  from  a  distance  the  turmoil  of  his  spirit.  She 
knew  of  his  misery  occultly.  She  did  not  deduce  it  from  her 
former  knowledge  of  what  he  was.  And  his  suffering  made  her 
suffer  in  a  terrible  way.  He  was  her  victim  and  she  was  his. 

Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder. 

In  the  Sisterhood  Rosamund  had  learnt,  always  against  her 
will  and  despite  the  utmost  effort  of  her  obstinacy,  the  useless- 
ness  of  that  command;  she  had  learnt  that  those  whom  God 
hath  really  joined  together  cannot  be  put  asunder  by  man  —  or 
by  woman.  Dion  had  killed  her  child,  but  she  had  not  been 
able  to  kill  what  she  was  to  Dion  and  what  Dion  was  to  her. 
Through  the  mingling  of  their  two  beings  there  had  been  born 
a  mystery  which  was,  perhaps,  eternal,  like  the  sound  of  the 
murmur  in  the  pine  trees  above  the  Valley  of  Olympia. 

She  could  not  trample  it  into  nothingness. 

At  first,  after  the  tragedy  of  which  Robin  had  been  the 
victim,  Rosamund  had  felt  a  horror  of  Dion  which  was  partly 
animal.  She  had  fled  from  him  because  she  had  been  physi- 
cally afraid  of  him.  He  had  been  changed  for  her  from  the 
man  who  loved  her,  and  whom  she  loved  in  her  different  way, 
into  the  slayer  of  her  child.  She  knew,  of  course,  quite  well 
that  Dion  was  not  a  murderer,  but  nevertheless  she  thought  of 
him  as  one  thinks  of  a  murderer.  The  blood  of  her  child  was 
upon  his  hands.  She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  being  near 
him.  Nevertheless,  because  she  was  not  mad,  in  time  reason 
asserted  itself  within  her.  Dion  disappeared  out  of  her  life. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  497 

He  did  not  put  up  the  big  fight  for  the  big  thing  of  which  Lady 
Ingleton  had  once  spoken  to  her  husband.  His  type  of  love 
was  far  too  sensitive  to  struggle  and  fight  on  its  own  behalf. 
When  he  had  heard  the  key  of  his  house  door  turned  against 
him,  when,  later,  Mr.  Darlington  with  infinite  precautions  had 
very  delicately  explained  to  him  why  it  had  been  done,  Rosa- 
mund had  attained  her  freedom.  He  had  waited  on  for  a 
time  in  England,  but  he  had  somehow  never  been  able  really  to 
hope  for  any  change  in  his  wife.  His  effort  to  make  her  see 
the  tragedy  in  its  true  light  had  exhausted  itself  in  the  garden 
at  Welsley.  Her  frantic  evasion  of  him  had  brought  it  to  an 
end.  He  could  not  renew  it.  Even  if  he  had  been  ready  to 
renew  it  those  about  Rosamund  would  have  dissuaded  him  from 
doing  so.  Every  one  who  was  near  her  saw  plainly  that  "  for 
the  present  " —  as  they  put  it  —  Dion  must  keep  out  of  her 
life. 

And  gradually  Rosamund  had  lost  that  half-animal  fear  of 
him,  gradually  she  had  come  to  realize  something  of  the  trag- 
edy of  his  situation.  A  change  had  come  about  in  her  almost 
in  despite  of  herself.  And  yet  she  had  never  been  able  to  for- 
give him  for  what  he  had  done.  Her  reason  knew  that  she  had 
nothing  to  forgive;  her  religious  sense,  her  conception  of  God, 
obliged  her  to  believe  that  Dion  had  been  God's  instrument  when 
he  had  killed  his  child;  but  something  within  her  refused  him 
pardon.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  pardon  could  only  mean  one 
thing  —  reconciliation.  And  now  had  come  Lady  Ingleton's 
revelation.  Instinctively  as  Rosamund  left  Father  Robertson's 
little  room  she  had  tried  to  hide  her  face.  She  had  received  a 
blow,  and  the  pain  of  it  frightened  her.  She  was  startled  by 
her  own  suffering.  What  did  it  mean?  What  did  it  portend? 
She  had  no  right  to  feel  as  she  did.  Long  ago  she  had  aban- 
doned the  right  to  such  a  feeling. 

The  information  Lady  Ingleton  had  brought  outraged  Rosa- 
mund. Anger  and  a  sort  of  corrosive  shame  struggled  for  the 
mastery  within  her. 

She  felt  humiliated  to  the  dust.     She  felt  dirty,  soiled. 

Dion  had  been  unfaithful  to  her. 

With  whom? 

The  white  face  of  Mrs.  Clarke  came  before  Rosamund  in  the 
murky  street,  two  wide-open  distressed  and  intent  eyes  stared 
into  hers. 

The  woman  was  Mrs.  Clarke. 

Mrs.  Clarke  —  and  Dion.     Mrs.  Clarke  had  succeeded  in  do» 


498  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

ing  what  long  ago  she  had  designed  to  do.  She  had  succeeded 
in  taking  possession  of  Dion. 

"  Because  I  threw  him  away!     Because  I  threw  him  away!  " 

Rosamund  found  herself  repeating  those  words  again  and 
again. 

"  I  threw  him  away,  I  threw  him  away.     Otherwise " 

She  reached  the  Sisterhood  and  went  to  her  little  room.  How 
she  got  through  the  remaining  duties  of  that  day  she  never 
remembered  afterwards.  The  calmness  of  routine  flagellated 
her  nerves.  She  felt  undressed  and  feared  the  eyes  of  the 
sisters.  After  the  evening  service  in  the  little  chapel  at- 
tached to  the  Sisterhood  she  was  unable  either  to  meditate,  to 
praise,  or  to  pray.  During  the  long  pause  for  silent  prayer  she 
felt  like  one  on  a  galloping  horse.  In  the  intense  silence  her 
ears  seemed  to  hear  the  beating  of  hoofs  on  an  iron  road. 
And  the  furious  horse  was  bearing  her  away  into  some  region  of 
darkness  and  terror. 

There  was  a  rustling  movement.  The  sisters  slowly  rose 
from  their  knees.  Again  Rosamund  was  conscious  of  feeling 
soiled,  dirty,  in  the  midst  of  them.  As  they  filed  out,  she  with 
them,  a  burning  hatred  came  to  her.  She  hated  the  woman  who 
was  the  cause  of  her  feeling  dirty.  She  wanted  to  use  her 
hands,  to  tear  something  away  from  her  body  —  the  dirt,  the 
foulness.  For  she  felt  it  actually  on  her  body.  Her  physical 
purity  was  desecrated  by  —  she  wouldn't  think  of  it. 

When  she  was  alone  in  her  little  sleeping-room,  the  door  shut, 
one  candle  burning,  her  eyes  went  to  the  wooden  crucifix  be- 
neath which  every  night  before  getting  into  her  narrow  bed  she 
knelt  in  prayer,  and  she  began  to  cry.  She  sat  down  on  the 
bed  and  cried  and  cried.  All  her  flesh  seemed  melting  into 
tears. 

"  My  poor  life!     My  poor  life !  " 

That  was  the  interior  cry  of  her  being,  again  and  again  re- 
peated — "  My  poor  life  —  stricken,  soiled,  crushed  down  in  the 
ooze  of  a  nameless  filth." 

Childless  and  now  betrayed!  How  terrible  had  been  her 
happiness  on  the  edge  of  the  pit !  The  days  in  Greece  —  Robin 
—  Dion's  return  from  the  war!  And  she  had  wished  to  live 
rightly;  she  had  loved  the  noble  things;  she  had  had  ideals  and 
she  had  tried  to  follow  them.  Purity  before  all  she  had 

She  sickened;  her  crying  became  violent.  Afraid  lest  some 
of  the  sisters  should  hear  her,  she  pressed  her  hands  over  her 
face  and  sank  down  on  the  bed. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  499 

Presently  she  saw  Mrs.  Clarke  before  her,  the  woman  whom 
she  had  thought  to  keep  out  of  her  life  —  the  fringe  of  her  life 
—  and  who  had  found  the  way  into  the  sacred  places. 

She  cried  for  a  long  while,  lying  there  on  the  bed,  with  her 
face  pressed  against  her  hands,  and  her  hands  pressed  against 
the  pillow;  but  at  last  she  ceased  from  crying.  She  had  poured 
out  all  the  tears  of  her  body. 

She  sat  up.  It  was  long  past  midnight.  The  house  was 
silent.  Slowly  she  began  to  undress,  hating  her  body  all  the 
time.  She  bathed  her  face  and  hands  in  cold  water,  and, 
when  she  felt  the  water,  shivered  at  the  thought  of  the  stain. 
When  she  was  ready  for  bed  she  looked  again  at  the  crucifix. 
She  ought  to  pray,  she  must  pray.  She  went  to  the  crucifix 
and  stood  in  front  of  it,  but  her  knees  refused  to  bend.  Her 
pride  of  woman  had  received  a  terrific  blow  that  day,  and  just 
because  of  that  she  felt  she  could  not  humble  herself. 

"  I  cannot  pray  —  I  won't  pray,"  she  whispered. 

And  she  turned  away,  put  out  the  light  and  got  into  bed. 

That  Dion  should  have  done  that,  should  have  been  able  to 
do  that! 

And  she  remembered  what  it  was  she  had  first  loved  in 
Dion,  the  thing  which  had  made  him  different  from  other  men; 
she  remembered  the  days  and  the  nights  in  Greece.  She  saw 
two  lovers  in  a  morning  land  descending  the  path  from  the  hill 
of  Drouva,  going  down  into  the  green  recesses  of  quiet  Elis. 
She  saw  Hermes  and  the  child. 

All  that  night  she  lay  awake.  In  the  morning  she  sent  the 
note  to  Father  Robertson. ' 

She  could  not  see  Lady  Ingleton  and  yet  she  dreaded  her  de- 
parture. She  wanted  to  know  more,  much  more.  A  gnawing 
hunger  of  curiosity  assailed  her.  This  woman  had  been  with 
Dion  —  since.  This  woman  knew  of  his  infidelity;  yet  she  af- 
firmed his  love  for  his  wife.  But  the  one  knowledge  surely  gave 
the  lie  to  the  other. 

Why  did  she  care  ?  Why  did  she  care  so  much  ?  Rosamund 
asked  herself  the  question  almost  with  terror. 

She  found  no  answer. 

But  she  could  not  pray.  Whenever  she  tried  to  pray  Mrs. 
Clarke  came  before  her,  and  a  man  —  could  it  be  Dion  ?  — 
stamped  with  the  hideous  imprint  of  physical  lust. 

Father  Robertson  was  startled  by  the  change  in  Rosamund's 
appearance  when  she  visited  him  two  days  after  she  had  sent 


500  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

him  the  note.  She  looked  physically  ill.  Her  color  had  gone. 
Her  eyes  were  feverish  and  sunken,  and  the  skin  beneath  them 
was  stained  with  that  darkness  which  betokens  nights  with- 
out sleep.  Her  lips  and  hands  twitched  with  a  nervousness  that 
was  painful.  But  that  which  distressed  him  more  than  any 
other  thing  was  the  expression  in  her  face  —  the  look  of  shame 
and  of  self-consciousness  which  altered  her  almost  horribly. 
Even  in  her  most  frantic  moments  of  grief  for  Robin  there  had 
always  been  something  of  directness,  of  fearlessness,  in  her 
beauty.  Now  something  furtive  literally  disfigured  her,  and  she 
seemed  trying  to  cover  it  with  a  dogged  obstinacy  which  sug- 
gested a  will  stretched  to  the  uttermost,  vibrating  like  a  string 
in  danger  of  snapping. 

"Has  Lady  Ingleto^  gone?  "  she  asked,  directly  she  was  in- 
side the  room. 

"  No,  not  yet.  You  remember  I  wrote  to  you  that  she  would 
stay  on  for  a  few  days." 

"  But  she  might  have  gone  unexpectedly." 

"  She  is  still  here." 

"  I  believe  I  shall  have  to  see  her,"  Rosamund  said,  with  a 
sort  of  hard  abruptness  and  determination. 

"Go  to  see  her,"  said  Father  Robertson  firmly.  "  Perhaps 
she  was  sent  here." 

"Sent  here?"  said  Rosamund,  with  a  sharpness  of  sudden 
suspicion. 

"  Oh,  my  child," —  he  put  his  hand  on  her  arm,  and  made 
her  sit  down, — "  not  by  a  human  being." 

Rosamund  looked  down  and  was  silent. 

"  Before  you  go,  if  you  are  going,"  Father  Robertson  con- 
tinued, sitting  down  by  the  deal  table  on  which  he  wrote  his 
letters,  "  I  must  do  what  I  ought  to  have  done  long  ago;  I  must 
speak  to  you  about  your  husband." 

Rosamund  did  not  look  up,  but  he  saw  her  frown,  and  he 
saw  a  movement  of  her  lips;  they  trembled  and  then  set  to- 
gether in  a  hard  line. 

"  I  know  what  he  was,  not  from  you  but  from  others;  from 
his  mother,  from  your  sister,  and  from  Canon  Wilton.  I'm  go- 
ing to  tell  you  something  Wilton  said  to  me  about  you  and  him 
after  you  had  separated  from  him." 

Father  Robertson  stopped,  and  fidgeted  for  a  moment  with 
the  papers  lying  in  disorder  on  his  table.  He  hated  the  task 
he  had  set  himself  to  do.  All  the  tenderness  in  him  revolted 
against  it.  He  knew  what  this  woman  whom  he  cared  for  very 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  501 

much  had  suffered;  he  divined  what  she  was  suffering  now. 
And  he  was  going  to  add  to  her  accumulated  misery  by  striking 
a  tremendous  blow  at  that  most  sacred  thing,  her  pride  of 
woman.  Would  she  be  his  enemy  after  he  had  spoken?  It 
was  possible.  Yet  he  must  speak. 

"  He  said  to  me '  Leith  has  a  great  heart.  When  will  his 

wife  understand  its  greatness?  ' ' 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then,  without  changing  her  posi- 
tion or  lifting  her  head,  Rosamund  said  in  a  hard,  level 
voice : 

"  Canon  Wilton  was  right  about  my  husband." 

"  He  loved  you.  That's  a  great  deal.  But  he  loved  you  in 
a  very  beautiful  way.  And  that's  much  more." 

"  Who  told  you  —  about  the  way  he  loved  me?  " 

"  Your  sister,  Beatrice." 

"  Beattie!     Yes,  she  knew  —  she  understood." 

She  bent  her  head  a  little  lower,  then  added: 

"  Beattie  is  worth  more  than  I  am." 

"  You  are  worth  a  great  deal,  but  —  but  I  want  to  see  you 
rise  to  the  heights  of  your  nature.  I  want  to  see  you  accom- 
plish the  greatest  task  of  all." 

"Yes?" 

"  Conquer  the  last  citadel  of  your  egoism.  Ego  dormio  et 
cor  meum  vigilat  —  Send  the  insistent  I  to  sleep.  I  said  it 
to  you  long  ago  before  I  knew  you.  I  say  it  to  you  now  when 
I  do  know  you,  when  I  know  the  deep  waters  you  have  passed 
through,  and  the  darkness  that  has  beset  you.  Fetter  your  ego- 
ism. Release  your  heart  and  your  spirit  in  one  great  action. 
Don't  let  him  go  down  forever  because  of  you.  I  believe  your 
misery  has  been  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  his.  If  he  has 
fallen  —  such  a  man  —  why  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  why,"  she  almost  whispered. 

"You  can  never  mount  up  while  you  are  driving  a  soul 
downwards.  Do  you  remember  those  words  in  the  Bible: 
'  Where  thou  goest  I  will  go  '  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Perhaps  they  might  be  changed  in  respect  of  you  and  the 
man  who  loved  you  so  much  and  in  such  a  beautiful  way.  You 
were  linked;  can  the  link  ever  be  broken?  You  have  tried  to 
break  it,  but  have  you  succeeded?  And  if  not,  wouldn't  it 
be  true,  drastically  true,  if  you  said  —  Where  thou  goest  I 
must  go?  If  he  goes  down  because  of  you  I  think  you'll  go 
down  with  him." 


502  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Rosamund  sat  absolutely  still.  When  Father  Robertson 
paused  again  there  was  not  a  sound  in  the  little  room. 

"  And  one  thing  more,"  he  said,  not  looking  towards  her. 
"  There's  the  child,  your  child  and  his.  Is  it  well  with  the 
child?" 

Rosamund  moved  and  looked  up.  Then  she  got  up  from 
her  chair. 

"  But  —  but  —  Robin's " 

She  stopped.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  Father  Robertson. 
He  looked  up  and  met  her  eyes,  and  she  saw  plainly  the  mystic 
in  him. 

"What  do  we  know?"  he  said.  "What  do  we  know  of 
the  effects  of  our  actions?  Can  we  be  certain  that  they  are 
limited  to  this  earth?  Is  it  well  with  the  child?  I  say  we 
don't  know.  We  dare  not  affirm  that  we  know.  He  loved 
his  father,  didn't  he?  " 

Rosamund  looked  stricken.  He  let  her  go.  He  could  not 
say  any  more  to  her. 

That  evening  Lady  Ingleton  called  in  Manxby  Street  and 
asked  for  Father  Robertson.  He  happened  to  be  in  and  re- 
ceived her  at  once. 

"  I've  had  a  note  from  Mrs.  Leith,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  said  Father  Robertson.  "  Indeed 
I  expected  it." 

"  She  wishes  to  see  me  to-morrow.  She  writes  that  she  will 
come  to  the  hotel.  How  have  you  persuaded  her  to  come?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  persuaded  her  though  I  wish  her  to 
see  you.  But  I  have  told  her  of  her  husband's  infidelity." 

"You  have  told  her !" 

Lady  Ingleton  stopped  short.  She  looked  unusually  dis- 
composed, even  nervous  and  agitated. 

"  I  said  you  might,"  she  murmured. 

"  It  was  essential." 

"  If  Cynthia  knew!  "  said  Lady  Ingleton. 

"  I  mentioned  no  name." 

"  She  must  have  guessed.  It's  odd,  when  I  told  you  I  didn't 
feel  treacherous  —  not  really!  but  now  I  feel  a  brute.  I've 
never  done  anything  like  this  before.  It's  against  all  my  code. 
I've  come  here,  done  all  this,  and  now  I  dread  meeting  Mrs. 
Leith.  I  wish  you  could  be  there  when  she  comes." 

She  sent  him  a  soft  glance  out  of  her  Italian  eyes. 

"  You  make  me  feel  so  safe,"  she  added. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  503 

"You  and  she  must  be  alone.  Remember  this!  Mrs.  Leith 
must  go  out  to  Constantinople." 

"Leave  the  Sisterhood!     Will  she  ever  do  that?" 

"  You  came  here  with  the  hope  of  persuading  her,  didn't 
you?" 

"A  hope  was  it?     A  forlorn  hope,  perhaps." 

"  Bring  it  to  fruition." 

"  But  Cynthia  1     If  she  ever  knows !  " 

Suddenly  Father  Robertson  looked  stern. 

"If  what  you  told  me  is  true " 

"  It  is  true." 

"  Then  she  is  doing  the  devil's  work.  Put  away  your  fears. 
They  aren't  worthy  of  you." 

As  she  took  his  hand  in  the  saying  of  good-by  she  said: 

"  Your  code  is  so  different  from  ours.  We  think  the  only 
possible  thing  to  do  —  where  a  friend  is  concerned  —  is  to  shut 
the  eyes  and  the  lips,  and  to  pretend,  and  to  keep  on  always 
pretending.  We  call  that  being  honorable." 

"  Poor  things !  "  said  Father  Robertson. 

But  he  pressed  her  hand  as  he  said  it,  and  there  was  an 
almost  tender  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  But  your  love  of  truth  isn't  quite  dead  yet,"  he  added, 
on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  as  he  let  her  out  into  the  rain. 
"  You  haven't  been  able  to  kill  it.  It's  an  indomitable  thing, 
thank  God." 

"  I  wish  I  —  why  do  you  live  always  in  Liverpool  ?  "  she 
murmured. 

She  put  up  her  little  silk  umbrella  and  was  gone. 

There  was  a  fire  in  her  sitting-room  on  the  following  morning. 
The  day  was  windy  and  cold,  for  March  was  going  out  resent- 
fully. Before  the  fire  lay  Turkish  Jane  on  a  cushion,  blinking 
placidly  at  the  flames.  Already  she  had  become  reconciled 
to  her  new  life  in  this  unknown  city.  Her  ecstasy  of  the 
journey  had  not  returned,  but  the  surprise  which  had  succeeded 
to  it  was  now  merged  in  a  stagnant  calm,  and  she  felt  no  objec- 
tion to  passing  the  remainder  of  her  life  in  the  Adelphi  Hotel. 
She  supposed  that  she  was  comfortably  settled  for  the  day  when 
she  heard  her  mistress  call  for  Annette  and  give  a  most  objec- 
tionable order. 

"  Please  take  Jane  away,  Annette,"  said  Lady  Ingleton. 

"  Miladi !  " 

"  I  don't  want  her  here  this  morning.     I'm  expecting  a  vis« 


504  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

itor,  and  Jane  might  bark.  I  don't  wish  to  have  a  noise  in 
the  room." 

Annette,  who  looked  decidedly  sulky,  approached  the  cushion, 
bent  down,  and  rather  abruptly  snatched  the  amazed  doyenne 
of  the  Pekinese  from  her  voluptuous  reveries. 

"  We  shall  probably  leave  here  to-morrow,"  Lady  Ingleton 
added. 

Annette's  expression  changed. 

"  We  are  going  back  to  London,  Miladi  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.     I'll  tell  you  this  afternoon." 

She  glanced  at  her  watch. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  disturbed  for  an  hour.  Don't  leave 
Jane  in  my  bedroom.  Take  her  away  to  yours." 

"  Very  well,  Miladi." 

Annette  went  out  looking  inquisitive,  with  Turkish  Jane  on 
her  arm. 

When  she  was  gone  Lady  Ingleton  took  up  "  The  Liverpool 
Mercury  "  and  tried  to  read  the  news  of  the  day.  The  March 
wind  roared  outside  and  made  the  windows  rattle.  She 
listened  to  it  and  forgot  the  chronicle  of  the  passing  hour.  She 
was  a  woman  who  cared  to  know  the  big  things  that  were  hap- 
pening in  the  big  world.  She  had  always  lived  among  men 
who  were  helping  to  make  history,  and  she  was  intelligent 
enough  to  understand  their  efforts  and  to  join  in  their  dis- 
cussions. Her  husband  had  often  consulted  her  when  he  was 
in  a  tight  place,  and  sometimes  he  had  told  her  she  had  the 
brain  of  a  man.  But  she  had  the  nerves  and  the  heart  of  a 
woman,  and  at  this  moment  public  affairs  and  the  news  of  the 
day  did  not  interest  her  at  all.  She  was  concentrated  on 
woman's  business.  Into  her  hands  she  had  taken  a  tangled 
love  skein.  And  she  was  almost  frightened  at  what  she  had 
ventured  to  do.  Could  she  hope  to  be  of  any  use,  of  any  help, 
in  getting  it  into  order?  Was  there  any  chance  for  the  man 
she  had  last  seen  in  Stamboul  near  Santa  Sophia?  She  almost 
dreaded  Rosamund  Leith's  arrival.  She  felt  nervous,  strung 
up.  The  roar  of  the  wind  added  to  her  uneasiness.  It  sug- 
gested turmoil,  driven  things,  the  angry  passions  of  nature. 
Beyond  the  Mersey  the  sea  was  raging.  She  had  a  stupid 
feeling  that  nature  and  man  were  always  in  a  ferment,  that 
it  was  utterly  useless  to  wish  for  peace,  or  to  try  to  bring  about 
peace,  that  destinies  could  only  be  worked  out  to  their  appointed 
ends  in  darkness  and  in  fury.  She  even  forgot  her  own  years 
of  happiness  for  a  little  while  and  saw  herself  as  a  woman 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  505 

always  anxious,  doubtful,  and  envisaging  untoward  things. 
When  a  knock  came  on  the  door  she  started  and  got  up  quickly 
from  her  chair.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast.  How  ridiculous ! 

"  Come  in!  "  she  said. 

A  waiter  opened  the?  door  and  showed  in  Rosamund. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LADY  INGLETON  looked  swiftly  at  the  woman  coming 
in  at  the  doorway  clad  in  the  severe,  voluminous,  black 
gown  and  cloak,  and  black  and  white  headgear,  which 
marked  out  the  members  of  the  Sisterhood  of  St.  Mary's.  Her 
first  thought  was  "  What  a  cold  face !  "  It  was  succeeded 
immediately  by  the  thought,  "  But  beautiful  even  in  its  cold- 
ness." She  met  Rosamund  near  the  door,  took  her  hand,  and 
said: 

"  I  am  glad  you  were  able  to  come.  I  wanted  very  much 
to  meet  you.  I  came  here  really  in  the  faint  hope  of  seeing 
you.  Let  me  take  your  umbrella.  What  a  day  it  is!  Did 
you  walk  ?  " 

"  I  came  most  of  the  way  by  tram.  Thank  you,"  said  Rosa- 
mund, in  a  contralto  voice  which  sounded  inflexible. 

Lady  Ingleton  went  to  "  stand  "  the  umbrella  in  a  corner. 
In  doing  this  she  turned  away  from  her  visitor  for  a  moment. 
She  felt  more  embarrassed,  more  "  at  a  loss  "  than  she  had 
ever  felt  before;  she  even  felt  guilty,  though  she  had  done 
no  wrong  and  was  anxious  only  to  do  right.  Her  sense  of 
guilt,  she  believed,  was  caused  by  the  fact  that  in  her  heart 
she  condemned  her  visitor,  and  by  the  additional,  more  un- 
pleasant fact  that  she  knew  Rosamund  was  aware  of  her 
condemnation. 

"  It's  hateful  —  so  much  knowledge  between  two  women  who 
are  strangers  to  each  other!  "  she  thought,  as  she  turned  round. 

"  Do  sit  down  by  the  fire,"  she  said  to  Rosamund,  who  was 
standing  near  the  writing-table  immediately  under  a  large 
engraving  of  "  Wedded." 

She  wished  ardently  that  Rosamund  wore  the  ordinary  clothes 
of  a  well-dressed  woman  of  the  world.  The  religious  panoply 
of  the  "  sister's "  attire,  with  its  suggestion  of  a  community 


506  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

apart,  got  on  her  nerves,  and  seemed  to  make  things  more 
difficult. 

Rosamund  went  to  a  chair  and  sat  down.  She  still  looked 
very  cold,  but  she  succeeded  in  looking  serene,  and  her  eyes, 
unworldly  and  pure,  did  not  fall  before  Lady  Ingleton's. 

Lady  Ingleton  sat  down  near  her  and  immediately  realized 
that  she  had  placed  herself  exactly  opposite  to  "  Wedded." 
She  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  large  nude  arms  of  the 
bending  man  and  met  Rosamund's  gaze  fixed  steadily  upon 
her.  That  gaze  told  her  not  to  delay,  but  to  go  straight  to  the 
tragic  business  which  had  brought  her  to  Liverpool. 

"  You  know  of  course  that  my  husband  is  Ambassador  at 
Constantinople,"  she  began. 

"  Yes,"  said  Rosamund. 

"  You  and  I  met  —  at  least  we  were  in  the  same  room  once 
—  at  Tippie  Chetwinde's,"  said  Lady  Ingleton,  almost  pleading 
with  her  visitor.  "  I  heard  you  sing." 

"  Yes,  I  remember.     I  told  Father  Robertson  so." 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  it  very  strange  my  coming  here  in 
this  way." 

In  spite  of  the  strong  effort  of  her  will  Lady  Ingleton  was 
feeling  with  every  moment  more  painfully  embarrassed.  All 
her  code  was  absolutely  against  mixing  in  the  private  concerns 
of  others  uninvited.  She  had  a  sort  of  delicate  hatred  of 
curiosity.  She  longed  to  prove  to  the  woman  by  the  fire  that 
she  was  wholly  incurious  now,  wholly  free  from  the  taint  of 
sordid  vulgarity  that  clings  to  the  social  busybody. 

"  I've  done  it  solely  because  I'm  very  sorry  for  some  one," 
she  continued;  "because  I'm  very  sorry  for  your  husband." 

She  looked  away  from  Rosamund,  and  again  her  eyes  rested 
on  the  engraving  of  "  Wedded."  The  large  bare  arms  of  the 
man,  his  bending,  amorous  head,  almost  hypnotized  her.  She 
disliked  the  picture  of  which  this  was  a  reproduction.  Far  too 
many  people  had  liked  it;  their  affection  seemed  to  her  to 
have  been  destructive,  to  have  destroyed  any  value  it  had 
formerly  had.  Yet  now,  as  she  looked  almost  in  despite  of 
herself,  suddenly  she  saw  through  the  engraving,  through  the 
symbol,  to  something  beyond;  to  the  prompting  conception  in 
the  painter's  mind  which  had  led  to  the  picture,  to  die  great 
mystery  of  the  pathetic  attempt  of  human  beings  who  love,  or 
who  think  they  love,  to  unite  themselves  to  each  other,  to 
mingle  body  with  body  and  soul  with  soul.  She  saw  a  woman 
in  the  dress  of  a  "  sister,"  the  woman  who  was  with  her;  she 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  507 

saw  a  man  in  an  Eastern  city;  and  abruptly  courage  came  to 
her  on  the  wings  of  a  genuine  emotion. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  what  I  feel  about  him,  Mrs. 
Leith,"  she  said.  "  But  I  want  to  try  to.  Will  you  let  me?  " 

"  Yes.  Please  tell  me,"  said  Rosamund,  in  a  level,  ex- 
pressionless voice. 

"  Remember  this;  I  never  saw  him  till  I  saw  him  in  Turkey, 
nor  did  my  husband.  We  were  not  able  to  draw  any  com- 
parison between  the  unhappy  man  and  the  happy  man.  We 
were  unprejudiced." 

"  I  quite  understand  that;  thank  you." 

"  It  was  in  the  summer.  We  were  living  at  Therapia  on 
the  Bosporus.  He  came  to  stay  in  a  hotel  not  far  off.  My 
husband  met  him  in  a  valley  which  the  Turks  call  Kesstane 
Dereh.  He  —  your  husband  —  was  sitting  there  alone  by  a 
stream.  They  talked.  My  husband  asked  him  to  call  at  our 
summer  villa.  He  came  the  next  day.  Of  course  I  —  I  knew 
something  of  his  story  " —  she  hurried  on  — "  and  I  was  pre- 
pared to  meet  a  man  who  was  unhappy.  (Forgive  me  for  say- 
ing all  this.)" 

"  But,  please,  I  have  come  to  hear,"  said  Rosamund,  coldly 
and  steadily. 

"  Your  husband  —  I  was  alone  with  him  during  his  first 
visit  —  made  an  extraordinary  impression  upon  me.  I  scarcely 
know  how  to  describe  it."  She  paused  for  a  moment.  "  There 
was  something  intensely  bitter  in  his  personality.  Bitterness 
is  an  active  principle.  And  yet  somehow  he  conveyed  to  me 
an  impression  of  emptiness  too.  I  remember  he  said  to  me, 
'  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I'm  a  free  agent. 
I  have  no  ties.'  I  shall  never  forget  his  look  when  he  said 
those  words.  I  never  knew  anything  about  loneliness  —  any- 
thing really  —  till  that  moment.  And  after  that  moment  I 
knew  everything.  I  asked  him  to  come  on  the  yacht  to  Bru^a, 
or  rather  to  Mudania;  from  there  one  goes  to  Brusa.  He 
came.  You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  he  was  eager  for  society, 
for  pleasure,  distraction.  It  wasn't  that.  He  was  making  a 
tremendous,  a  terrible  effort  to  lay  hold  on  life  again,  to  interest 
himself  in  things.  He  was  pushed  to  it." 

"  Pushed  to  it !  "  said  Rosamund,  still  in  the  hard  level 
voice.  "Who  pushed  him?" 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  it  was  as  I  say,"  said  Lady  Ingleton, 
quickly  and  with  embarrassment.  "  We  were  very  few  on  the 
yacht.  Of  course  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  your  husband.  He 


508  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

was  absolutely  reserved  with  me.  He  always  has  been.  You 
mustn't  think  he  has  ever  given  me  the  least  bit  of  his  con- 
fidence. He  never  has.  I  am  quite  sure  he  never  would. 
We  are  only  acquaintances.  But  I  want  to  be  a  friend  to  him 
now.  He  hasn't  a  friend,  not  one,  out  there.  My  husband, 
I  think,  feels  rather  as  I  do  about  him,  in  so  far  as  a  man  can 
feel  in  our  sort  of  way.  He  would  gladly  be  more  intimate 
with  your  husband.  But  your  husband  doesn't  make  friends. 
He's  beyond  anything  of  that  kind.  He  tried,  on  the  yacht 
and  at  Brusa.  He  did  his  utmost.  But  he  was  held  back 
by  his  misery.  I  must  tell  you  (it's  very  uninteresting)  " — 
her  voice  softened  here,  and  her  face  slightly  changed,  became 
gentler,  more  intensely  feminine  — "  that  my  husband  and  I 
are  very  happy  together.  We  always  have  been;  we  always 
shall  be;  we  can't  help  it.  Being  with  us  your  husband  had 
to  —  to  contemplate  our  happiness.  It  —  I  suppose  it  re-i 
minded  him " 

She  stopped;  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  say  it.  Again 
her  eyes  rested  upon  "  Wedded,"  and,  in  spite  of  her  long 
conviction  of  its  essential  banality  —  she  classed  it  with  "The 
Soul's  Awakening,"  "  Harmony,"  and  all  the  things  she  was 
farthest  away  from  —  she  felt  what  it  stood  for  painfully, 
almost  mysteriously. 

"  One  day,"  she  resumed,  speaking  more  slowly,  and  trying 
to  banish  emotion  from  her  voice,  "  I  went  out  from  the  hotel 
where  we  stayed  at  Brusa,  quite  alone.  There's  a  mosque  at 
Brusa  called  Jeshil  Jami,  the  Green  Mosque.  It  stands  above 
the  valley.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  know,  and 
quite  the  most  beautiful  Osmanli  building.  I  like  to  go  there 
alone.  Very  often  there  is  no  one  in  the  mosque.  Well,  I 
went  there  that  day.  When  I  went  in  —  the  guardian  was 
on  the  terrace;  he  knows  me  and  that  I'm  the  British  Am- 
bassadress, and  never  bothers  me  —  I  thought  at  first  the 
mosque  was  quite  em;  .y.  I  sat  down  close  to  the  door.  After 
I  had  been  there  two  or  three  minutes  I  felt  there  was  some 
one  else  in  the  mosque.  I  looked  round.  Before  the  Mihrab 
there  was  a  man.  It  was  your  husband.  He  was  kneeling  on 
the  matting,  but  —  but  he  wasn't  praying.  When  I  knew,  when 
I  heard  what  he  was  doing,  I  went  away  at  once.  I  couldn't 
—  I  felt  that " 

Again  she  paused.  In  the  pause  she  heard  the  gale  tearing 
at  the  windows.  She  looked  at  the  woman  in  the  sister's  dress. 
Rosamund  was  sitting  motionless,  and  was  now  looking  down. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  509 

Lady  Ingleton  positively  hated  the  sister's  dress  at  that  moment. 
She  thought  of  it  as  a  sort  of  armor  in  which  her  visitor  was 
encased,  an  armor  which  rendered  her  invulnerable.  What 
shaft  could  penetrate  that  smooth  black  and  white,  that  flowing 
panoply,  and  reach  the  heart  Lady  Ingleton  desired  to  pierce? 
Suddenly  Lady  Ingleton  felt  cruel.  She  longed  to  tear  away 
from  Rosamund  all  the  religion  which  seemed  to  be  protecting 
her;  she  longed  to  see  her  naked  as  Dion  Leith  was  naked. 

"  I  didn't  care  to  look  upon  a  man  in  hell,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  which  had  become  almost  brutal,  a  voice  which  Sir  Carey 
would  scarcely  have  recognized  if  he  had  heard  it. 

Rosamund  said  nothing,  and,  after  a  moment,  Lady  Ingleton 
continued : 

"  With  us  on  the  yacht  was  one  of  my  husband's  secretaries 
of  Embassy,  Cyril  Vane,  who  had  just  become  engaged  to  be 
married.  He  is  married  now.  In  his  cabin  on  the  yacht  he 
had  a  photograph  of  the  girl.  One  night  he  was  walking  up 
and  down  on  deck  with  your  husband,  and  your  husband  — 
I'd  just  told  him  about  Vane's  engagement  —  congratulated 
him.  Vane  invited  Mr.  Leith  into  the  cabin  and  showed  him 
the  photograph.  Vane  told  me  afterwards  that  he  should  never 
forget  the  look  on  your  husband's  face  as  he  took  the  photo- 
graph and  gazed  at  it.  When  he  put  it  down  he  said  to  Vane, 
'  I  hope  you  may  be  happy.  She  looks  very  kind,  and  very 
good,  too;  but  there's  no  cruelty  on  earth  like  the  cruelty  of 
a  good  woman.''1  (Did  the  sister's  dress  rustle  faintly?) 
"  Vane  —  he's  only  a  boy  —  was  very  angry  for  a  moment, 
though  he's  usually  imperturbable.  I  don't  know  exactly  what 
he  said,  but  I  believe  he  made  a  rather  strong  protest  about 
knowing  his  fiancee's  character  au  fond.  Anyhow,  your  hus- 
band took  hold  of  his  arm  and  said  to  him,  '  Don't  love  very 
much  and  you  may  be  happy.  That's  the  only  chance  for  a 
man  —  not  to  love  the  woman  very  much.'  Vane  came  to  me 
and  told  me.  I  remember  it  was  late  at  night  and  my  husband 
was  there.  When  Vane  was  leaving  us  Carey  said  to  him, 
'  Forget  the  advice  that  poor  fellow  gave  you.  Love  her  as 
much  as  you  can,  my  boy.  Dion  Leith  speaks  out  of  the  bitter- 
ness that  is  destroying  him.  But  very  few  men  can  love  as 
he  can,  and  very  few  men  have  been  punished  by  their  love 
as  he  has  been  punished  by  his.  His  sorrow  is  altogether  ex- 
ceptional, and  has  made  him  lose  the  power  of  moral  vision. 
His  soul  has  been  poisoned  at  the  source.'  My  husband  was 
right." 


510  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"You  came  here  to  tell  me  that?"  said  Rosamund,  lifting 
her  head  and  speaking  coldly  and  very  clearly. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  At  the  time 
I  am  speaking  of  I  had  no  thought  of  ever  trying  to  see  you. 
That  thought  came  to  me  long  afterwards." 

"Why?" 

"  I'm  a  happy  woman.  In  my  happiness  I've  learnt  to 
respect  love  very  much,  and  I've  learnt  to  recognize  it  at  a 
glance.  Your  husband  is  the  victim  of  a  great  love,  Mrs. 
Leith.  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  stand  by  and  see  him  utterly 
destroyed  by  it." 

"Father  Robertson  tells  me "  said  Rosamund. 

And  then  she  was  silent.  All  this  time  she  was  struggling 
almost  furiously  against  pride  and  an  intense  reserve  which 
seemed  trying  to  suffocate  every  good  impulse  within  her. 
She  held  on  to  the  thought  of  Father  Robertson  (she  was  unable 
to  hold  on  to  the  thought  of  God) ;  she  strove  not  to  hate  the 
woman  who  was  treading  in  her  sanctuary,  and  whose  steps 
echoed  harshly  and  discordantly  to  its  farthest,  its  holiest 
recesses;  but  she  felt  herself  to  be  hardening  against  her  will, 
to  be  congealing,  turning  to  ice.  Nevertheless  she  was  resolute 
not  to  leave  the  room  in  which  she  was  without  learning  all 
that  this  woman  had  to  tell  her. 

"Yes?"  said  Lady  Ingleton. 

And  the  thought  went  through  her  mind: 

"  Oh,  how  she  is  hating  me!  " 

"  Father  Robertson  told  me  there  was  something  else." 

"  Yes,  there  is.  Otherwise  I  might  never  have  come  here. 
I'm  partly  to  blame.  But  I  —  but  I  can't  possibly  go  into 
details.  You  mustn't  ask  me  for  any  details,  please.  Try  to 
accept  the  little  I  can  say  as  truth,  though  I'm  not  able  to  give 
you  any  proof.  You  must  know  that  women  who  are  intelli- 
gent, and  have  lived  long  in  the  —  well,  in  the  sort  of  world 
I've  lived  in,  are  never  mistaken  about  certain  things.  They 
don't  need  what  are  called  proofs.  They  know  certain  things 
are  happening,  or  not  happening,  without  holding  any  proofs 
for  or  against.  Your  husband  has  got  into  the  wrong 
hands." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  said  Rosamund  steadily, 
even  obstinately. 

"  In  his  misery  and  absolute  loneliness  he  has  allowed  him- 
self to  be  taken  possession  of  by  a  woman.  She  is  doing  him 
a  great  deal  of  harm.  In  fact  she  is  ruining  him." 

She   stopped.     Perhaps   she   suspected   that   Rosamund,   in 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  511 

defiance  of  her  own  denial  of  proofs,  would  begin  asking  for 
them;  but  Rosamund  said  nothing. 

"  He  is  going  down,"  Lady  Ingleton  resumed.  "  He  has 
already  deteriorated  terribly.  I  saw  him  recently  by  chance 
in  Stamboul  (he  never  comes  to  us  now),  and  I  was  shocked 
at  his  appearance.  When  I  first  met  him,  in  spite  of  his  bitter- 
ness and  intense  misery  I  knew  at  once  that  I  was  with  a  man 
of  fine  nature.  There  was  something  unmistakable,  the  rare 
imprint;  that's  fading  from  him  now.  You  know  Father  Rob- 
ertson very  well.  I  don't.  But  the  very  first  time  I  was 
with  him  I  knew  he  was  a  man  who  was  seeking  the  heights. 
Your  husband  now  is  seeking  the  depths,  as  if  he  wanted  to 
hide  himself  and  his  misery  in  them.  Perhaps  he  hasn't  found 
the  lowest  yet.  I  believe  there  is  only  one  human  being  who 
can  prevent  him  from  finding  it.  I'm  quite  sure  there  is  only 
one  human  being.  That's  why  I  came  here." 

She  was  silent.     Then  she  added: 

"  I've  told  you  now  what  I  wished  to  tell  you,  all  I  can  tell 
you." 

In  thinking  beforehand  of.  what  this  interview  would  prob- 
ably be  like  Lady  Ingleton  had  expected  it  to  be  more  intense, 
charged  with  greater  surface  emotion  than  was  the  case.  Now 
she  felt  a  strange  coldness  in  the  room.  The  dry  rattling  of 
the  window  under  the  assault  of  the  gale  was  an  interpolated 
sound  that  was  in  place. 

"  Your  husband  has  never  mentioned  your  name  to  me," 
she  said,  influenced  by  an  afterthought.  "  And  yet  I've  come 
here,  because  I  know  that  the  only  hope  of  salvation  for  him 
is  here." 

Again  her  eyes  went  to  "  Wedded,"  and  then  to  the  sister's 
dress  and  close-fitting  headgear  which  disguised  Rosamund. 
And  suddenly  the  impulsiveness  which  was  her  inheritance 
from  her  Celtic  and  Latin  ancestors  took  complete  possession 
of  her.  She  got  up  swiftly  and  went  to  Rosamund. 

"  You  hate  me  for  having  come  here,  for  having  told  you  all 
this.  You  will  always  hate  me,  I  think.  I've  intruded  upon 
your  peaceful  life  in  religion  —  your  peaceful,  comfortable, 
sheltered  life." 

Her  great  dark  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the  cross  which 
lay  on  Rosamund's  breast.  She  lifted  her  hand  and  pointed 
to  it. 

"  You've  nailed  him  on  a  cross,"  she  said,  with  almost  fierce 
intensity.  "  How  can  you  be  happy  in  that  dress,  worshiping 
God  with  a  lot  of  holy  women?  " 


512  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Did  I  tell  you  I  was  happy?  "  said  Rosamund. 

She  got  up  and  stood  facing  Lady  Ingleton.  Her  face  still 
preserved  something  of  its  coldness,  but  the  color  had  deepened 
in  the  cheeks,  and  the  expression  in  the  eyes  had  changed. 
They  looked  now  much  less  like  the  eyes  of  a  "  sister  "  than 
they  had  looked  when  she  came  into  the  room. 

"  Take  off  that  dress  and  go  to  Constantinople!  "  said  Lady 
Ingleton. 

Rosamund  flushed  deeply,  painfully;  her  mouth  trembled, 
and  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  but  she  spoke  resolutely. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  said.  "  You  were  right 
to  come  here  and  to  tell  me.  If  I  hate  you,  as  you  say,  that's 
my  fault,  not  yours." 

She  paused.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  making  a  tre- 
mendous effort  to  conquer  something;  she  even  shut  her  eyes 
for  a  brief  instant.  Then  she  .added  in  a  very  low  voice : 

"Thank  you!" 

And  she  put  out  her  hand. 

Tears  started  into  Lady  Ingleton's  eyes  as  she  took  the  hand. 
Rosamund  turned  and  went  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

Some  minutes  after  she  had  gone  Lady  Ingleton  heard  rain 
beating  upon  the  window.  The  sound  reminded  her  of  the 
umbrella  she  had  "  stood  "  in  the  corner  of  the  room  when 
Rosamund  came  in.  It  was  still  there.  Impulsively  she  went 
to  the  corner  and  took  it  up;  then,  realizing  that  Rosamund 
must  already  be  on  her  way,  she  laid  it  down  on  the  table. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  from  "  Wedded  "  to  the  damp 
umbrella. 

Then  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  cried  impetuously. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  the  month  of  May.     Already  there  had  been  several 
unusually  hot  days  in  Constantinople,  and  Mrs.  Clarke 
was  beginning  to  think  about  the  villa  at  Buyukderer. 
She  was  getting  very  tired  of  Pera.     She  had   fulfilled  her 
promise  to  Dion  Leith.     She  had  given  up  going  to  England 
for  Jimmy's  Christmas  holidays  and  had  spent  the  whole  winter 
in  Constantinople.     But  now  she  had  had  enough  of  it  for 
the  present,  indeed  more  than  enough  of  it. 

She  was  feeling  weary  of  the  everlasting  diplomatic  society, 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  513 

of  the  potins  political  and  social,  of  the  love  affairs  and  in- 
trigues of  her  acquaintances  which  she  knew  of  or  divined,  of 
the  familiar  voices  and  faces.  She  wanted  something  new; 
she  wanted  to  break  away.  The  restlessness  that  was  always 
in  her,  concealed  beneath  her  pale  aspect  of  calm,  was  persecut- 
ing her  as  the  spring  with  its  ferment  drew  near  to  the  torrid 
summer. 

The  spring  had  got  into  her  veins  and  had  made  her  long 
for  novelty. 

One  morning  when  Sonia  came  into  Mrs.  Clarke's  bedroom 
with  the  coffee  she  brought  a  piece  of  news. 

"  Miladi  Ingleton  arrived  at  the  Embassy  from  England 
yesterday,"  said  Sonia,  in  her  thick,  soft  voice. 

The  apparent  recovery  of  Lady  Ingleton's  mother  had  been 
a  deception.  She  had  had  a  relapse  almost  immediately  after 
Lady  Ingleton's  return  from  Liverpool  to  London;  an  operation 
had  been  necessary,  and  Lady  Ingleton  had  been  obliged  to 
stay  on  in  England  for  several  weeks.  During  this  time  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  had  no  news  from  her.  Till  Sonia's  announce- 
ment she  had  not  known  the  date  fixed  for  her  friend's  return. 
She  received  the  information  with  her  usual  inflexibility,  and 
merely  said: 

"  I'll  go  to  see  her  this  afternoon." 

Then  she  took  up  a  newspaper  which  Sonia  had  brought 
in  with  her  and  began  to  sip  the  coffee. 

As  soon  as  she  was  dressed  she  sent  a  note  to  the  British 
Embassy  to  ask  if  her  friend  would  be  in  at  tea-time. 

Lady  Ingleton  drew  her  brows  together  when  she  read  it. 
She  was  delighted  to  be  again  in  Constantinople,  for  she  had 
missed  Carey  quite  terribly,  but  she  wished  that  Cynthia  Clarke 
was  anywhere  else.  Ever  since  her  visit  to  Liverpool  she  had 
been  dreading  the  inevitable  meeting  with  the  friend  whose 
secret  she  had  betrayed.  Yet  the  meeting  must  take  place. 
She  would  be  obliged  some  day  to  look  once  more  into  Cynthia 
Clarke's  earnest  and  distressed  eyes.  When  that  happened 
would  she  hate  herself  very  much  for  what  she  had  done? 
She  had  often  wondered.  She  wondered  now,  as  she  read  the 
note  written  in  her  friend's  large  upright  hand,  as  she  wrote  a 
brief  answer  to  say  she  would  be  in  after  five  o'clock  that  day. 

She  was  troubled  by  the  fact  that  her  visit  to  Liverpool  had 
not  yielded  the  result  she  had  hoped  for.  Rosamund  Leith 
had  not  sought  her  husband.  But  she  had  taken  off  the  sister's 
dress  and  had  given  up  living  in  the  north. 


514  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Lady  Ingleton  knew  this  from  Father  Robertson,  with  whom 
she  corresponded.  She  had  never  seen  Rosamund  or  heard 
from  her  since  the  interview  in  the  Adelphi  Hotel.  And  she 
was  troubled,  although  she  had  recently  received  from  Father 
Robertson  a  letter  ending  with  these  words: 

"  Pressure  would  be  useless.  I  have  found  by  experience 
that  one  cannot  hurry  the  human  soul.  It  must  move  at  its 
own  pace.  You  have  done  your  part.  Try  to  leave  the  rest 
with  confidence  in  other  hands.  Through  you  she  knows 
the  truth  of  her  husband's  condition.  She  has  given  up  the 
Sisterhood.  Surely  that  means  that  she  has  taken  the  first 
step  on  the  road  that  leads  to  Constantinople." 

But  now  May  was  here  with  its  heat,  and  its  sunshine,  and 
its  dust,  and  Lady  Ingleton  must  soon  meet  the  eyes  of  Cynthia 
Clarke,  and  the  man  she  had  striven  to  redeem  was  unredeemed. 

She  sighed  as  she  got  up  from  her  writing-table.  Perhaps 
perversely  she  felt  that  she  would  mind  meeting  Cynthia  Clarke 
less  if  her  treachery  had  been  rewarded  by  the  accomplishment 
of  her  purpose.  A  useless  treachery  seemed  to  her  peculiarly 
unpardonable.  She  hated  having  done  a  wrong  without  secur- 
ing a  quid  pro  quo.  Even  if  Father  Robertson  were  right, 
and  Rosamund  Leith's  departure  from  the  Sisterhood  were  the 
first  step  on  the  road  to  Constantinople,  she  might  arrive  too 
late. 

Although  she  was  once  more  with  Carey,  Lady  Ingleton  felt 
unusually  depressed. 

Soon  after  five  the  door  of  her  boudoir  was  opened  by  a 
footman,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  walked  slowly  in,  looking,  Lady 
Ingleton  thought,  even  thinner,  even  more  haggard  and  grave 
than  usual.  She  was  perfectly  dressed  in  a  gown  that  was 
a  marvel  of  subtle  simplicity,  and  wore  a  hat  that  drew  just 
enough  attention  to  the  lovely  shape  of  her  small  head. 

"  Certainly  she  has  the  most  delicious  head  I  ever  saw," 
was  Lady  Ingleton's  first  (preposterous)  thought.  "  And  the 
strongest  will  I  ever  encountered,"  was  the  following  thought, 
as  she  looked  into  her  friend's  large  eyes. 

After  they  had  talked  London  and  Paris  for  a  few  minutes 
Lady  Ingleton  changed  the  subject,  and  with"  a  sort  of  languid 
zest,  which  was  intended  to  conceal  a  purpose  she  desired 
to  keep  secret,  began  to  speak  of  Pera  and  of  the  happenings 
there  while  she  had  been  away.  Various  acquaintances  were 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  515 

discussed,  and  presently  Lady  Ingleton  arrived,  strolling,  at 
Dion  Leith. 

"Mr.  Leith  is  still  here,  isn't  he?"  she  asked.  "Carey 
hasn't  seen  him  lately  but  thinks  he  is  about." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  still  here,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke's  husky  voice. 

"  What  does  he  do?     How  does  he  pass  his  time?  " 

"  I  often  wonder,"  replied  Mrs.  Clarke,  squeezing  a  lemon 
into  her  cup,  which  was  full  of  clear  China  tea. 

She  put  the  lemon,  thoroughly  squeezed,  down  on  its  plate, 
looking  steadily  at  her  friend,  and  continued: 

"  You  remember  last  summer  when  I  asked  you  to  be  kind 
to  him,  and  told  you  why  I  was  interested  in  him,  poor  fellow?  " 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  I  really  thought  at  that  time  it  would  be  possible  to  assist 
him  to  get  back  into  life,  what  we  understand  by  life.  You 
helped  me  like  a  true  friend." 

"Oh,  I  really  did  nothing!" 

"  You  enabled  me  to  continue  my  acquaintance  with  him 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  inflexibly. 

Lady  Ingleton  was  silent,  and  Mrs.  Clarke  continued: 

"  You  know  what  I  did,  my  efforts  to  interest  him  in  all 
sorts  of  things.  I  even  got  Jimmy  out  because  I  knew  Mr. 
Leith  was  fond  of  him,  threw  them  together,  even  tried  to  turn 
Mr.  Leith  into  a  sort  of  holiday  tutor.  Anything  to  take  him 
out  of  himself.  Later  on,  when  Jimmy  went  back  to  England, 
I  thought  I  would  try  hard  to  wake  up  Dion  Leith's  mind." 

"  Did  you?  "  said  Lady  Ingleton,  in  her  most  languid  voice. 

"  I  took  him  about  in  Stamboul.  I  showed  him  all  the  inter- 
esting things  that  travelers  as  a  rule  know  nothing  about.  I 
tried  to  make  him  feel  Stamboul.  I  even  spent  the  winter 
here  chiefly  because  of  him,  though,  of  course,  nobody  must 
know  that  but  you." 

"  Entendu,  ma  chere !  " 

"  But  I've  made  a  complete  failure  of  it  all." 

"  You  mean  that  Mr.  Leith  can't  take  up  life  again?  " 

"  He  simply  doesn't  care  for  the  things  of  the  mind.  He 
has  very  few  mental  resources.  I  imagined  that  there  was 
very  much  more  in  him  to  work  upon  than  there  is.  If  his 
heart  receives  a  hard  blow,  an  intellectual  man  can  always 
turn  for  consolation  to  the  innumerable  things  of  art,  philosophy, 
literature,  that  are  food  for  the  mind.  But  Mr.  Leith  un- 
fortunately isn't  an  intellectual  man.  And  another  thing " 

She  had  been  speaking  very  quietly;  now  she  paused. 


516  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Lady  Ingleton. 

"  Jimmy  came  out  for  the  Easter  holidays.  It  was  absurd, 
because  they're  so  short,  but  I  had  to  see  him,  and  I  couldn't 
very  well  go  to  England.  Well,  Jimmy's  taken  a  violent  dis- 
like to  Mr.  Leith." 

"  I  thought  Jimmy  was  very  fond  of  him." 

"  He  was  devoted  to  him,  but  now  he  can't  bear  him.  In 
fact,  Jimmy  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  Dion  Leith.  I 
suppose  —  boys  of  that  age  are  often  very  sharp  —  I  suppose  he 
sees  the  deterioration  in  Mr.  Leith  and  it  disgusts  him." 

"Deterioration!  "  said  Lady  Ingleton,  leaning  forward,  and 
speaking  more  impulsively  than  before. 

"  Yes.     It  is  heart-rending." 

"Really!" 

"  And  it  makes  things  difficult  for  me." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  that." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence;  then,  as  Mrs.  Clarke  did 
not  speak,  but  sat  still  wrapped  in  a  haggard  immobility,  Lady 
Ingleton  said: 

'  When  do  you  go  to  Buyukderer  ?  " 

'  I  shall  probably  go  next  week.     I'm  very  tired  of  Pera." 

'  You  look  tired." 

'  I  didn't  mean  physically.     I'm  never  physically  tired." 

'  Extraordinary  woman!  "  said  Lady  Ingleton,  with  a  faint, 
unhumorous  smile.  "  Come  and  see  some  Sevres  I  picked  up 
at  Christie's.  Carey  is  delighted  with  it,  although,  of  course, 
horrified  at  the  price  I  paid  for  it." 

She  got  up  and  went  with  Mrs.  Clarke  into  one  of  the 
drawing-rooms.  Dion  Leith  was  not  mentioned  again. 

That  evening  the  Ingletons  dined  alone.  Sir  Carey  said 
he  must  insist  on  a  short  honeymoon  even  though  they  were 
obliged  to  spend  it  in  an  Embassy.  They  had  dinner  in 
Bohemian  fashion  on  a  small  round  table  in  Lady  Ingleton's 
boudoir,  and  were  waited  upon  by  Sir  Carey's  valet,  a  middle- 
aged  Italian  who  had  been  for  many  years  in  his  service  and 
who  had  succeeded,  in  the  way  of  Italian  servants,  in  becoming 
one  of  the  family.  The  Pekinese  lay  around  solaced  by  the 
arrival  of  their  mistress  and  of  their  doyenne. 

When  dinner  was  over  and  Sir  Carey  had  lit  his  cigar,  he 
breathed  a  sigh  of  contentment. 

"  At  last  I'm  happy  once  more  after  all  those  months  of 
solitude!  " 

He  looked  across  at  his  wife,  and  added: 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  517 

"  But  are  you  happy  at  being  with  me  again?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  I  know,  of  course." 

"Then  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  Well,  I'm  a  trained  observer,  like  every  competent  diplo- 
matist, and  —  there's  something.  I  see  in  the  lute  of  your 
happiness  a  tiny  rift.  It's  scarcely  visible,  but  —  I  see  it." 

"  I'm  not  quite  happy  to-night." 

"  And  you  won't  tell  me  why,  on  our  honeymoon  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  but  I  can't.  I  have  no  right  to  tell 
you." 

"  You  only  can  judge  of  that." 

"  I've  done  something  that  even  you  might  think  abomin- 
able, something  treacherous.  I  had  a  great  reason  —  but 
still!  "  She  sighed.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  you  what 
it  is,  because  to  do  that  would  increase  my  sin.  To-night  I'm 
realizing  that  I'm  not  at  all  sorry  for  what  I  have  done.  And 
that  not  being  sorry  —  as  well  as  something  else  —  makes  me 
unhappy  in  a  new  way.  It's  all  very  complicated." 

"Like  Balkan  politics!  Shall  we" — he  looked  round  the 
room  meditatively — "  shall  we  set  the  dogs  at  it?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  Even  they  couldn't  drive  my  tristesse  quite  away.  You 
have  more  power  with  me  than  many  dogs.  Read  me  some- 
thing. Read  me  '  Rabbi  ben  Ezra.'  " 

Sir  Carey  went  to  fetch  the  exorcizer. 

The  truth  was  that  Lady  Ingleton's  interview  with  Cynthia 
Clarke  had  made  her  realize  two  things:  that  since  she  had 
come  to  know  Father  Robertson,  and  had  betrayed  to  him  the 
secret  of  her  friend's  life,  any  genuine  feeling  of  liking  she 
had  had  for  Cynthia  Clarke  had  died;  and  that  Cynthia  Clarke 
was  tired  of  Dion  Leith. 

That  day  Mrs.  Clarke's  hypocrisy  had,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time,  absolutely  disgusted,  and  even  almost  horrified,  Lady 
Ingleton.  For  years  Lady  Ingleton  had  known  of  it,  but  for 
years  she  had  almost  admired  it.  The  cleverness,  the  subtlety, 
the  competence  of  it  had  entertained  her  mind.  She  had  re- 
spected, too,  the  courage  which  never  failed  Mrs.  Clarke.  But 
she  was  beginning  to  see  her  with  new  eyes.  Perhaps  Father 
Robertson  had  given  his  impulsive  visitor  a  new  moral  vision. 

During  the  conversation  that  afternoon  at  certain  moments 
Lady  Ingleton  had  almost  hated  Cynthia  Clarke  —  when 
Cynthia  had  spoken  of  trying  to  wake  up  Dion  Leith's  mind, 


518  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  his  not  being  an  intellectual  man,  of  Jimmy  Clarke's  shrink- 
ing from  him  because  of  his  deterioration.  And  when  Cynthia 
had  said  that  deterioration  was  "  heart-rending  "  Lady  Ingleton 
had  quite  definitely  detested  her.  This  feeling  of  detestation 
had  persisted  while,  in  the  drawing-room,  Cynthia  was  lovingly 
appreciating  the  new  acquisition  of  Sevres.  Lady  Ingleton 
sickened  now  when  she  thought  of  the  lovely  hands  sensitively 
touching,  feeling,  the  thin  china.  There  really  was  something 
appalling  in  the  delicate  mentality,  in  the  subtle  taste,  of  a 
woman  in  whom  raged  such  devastating  physical  passions. 

Lady  Ingleton  shuddered  as  she  remembered  her  conversa- 
tion with  her  "  friend."  But  it  had  brought  about  something. 
It  had  driven  away  any  lingering  regret  of  hers  for  having 
spoken  frankly  to  Father  Robertson.  Cynthia  was  certainly 
tired  of  Dion  Leith.  Was  she  about  to  sacrifice  him  as  she 
had  sacrificed  others?  Lady  Ingleton  dreaded  the  future.  For 
during  the  interview  at  the  Adelphi  Hotel  she  had  realized 
Rosamund's  innate  and  fastidious  purity.  To  forgive  even  one 
infidelity  would  be  a  tremendous  moral  triumph  in  such  a 
woman  as  Rosamund.  But  if  Cynthia  Clarke  threw  Dion  Leith 
away,  and  he  fell  into  promiscuous  degradation,  then  surely 
Rosamund's  nature  would  rise  up  in  inevitable  revolt.  Even 
if  she  came  to  Constantinople  then  it  would  surely  be  too  late. 

Lady  Ingleton  had  seen  clearly  enough  into  the  mind  of 
Cynthia  Clarke,  but  there  was  hidden  from  her  the  greater 
part  of  a  human  drama  not  yet  complete. 

Combined  with  the  ugly  passion  which  governed  her  life, 
Mrs.  Clarke  had  an  almost  wild  love  of  personal  freedom.  As 
much  as  she  loved  to  fetter  she  hated  to  be  fettered.  This 
hatred  had  led  her  into  many  difficulties  during  the  course  of 
her  varied  life,  difficulties  which  had  always  occurred  at  mo- 
ments when  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  people.  Ever  since  she 
had  grown  up  there  had  been  recurring  epochs  when  she  had 
been  tormented  by  the  violent  desire  to  rid  herself  of  some 
one  whom  she  had  formerly  longed  for,  whom  she  had  striven 
to  bind  to  her.  Until  now  she  had  always  eventually  succeeded 
in  breaking  away  from  those  who  were  beginning  to  involve 
her  in  weariness  or  to  disgust  her.  There  had  sometimes  been 
perilous  moments,  painful  scenes,  bitter  recriminations.  But 
by  the  exercise  of  her  indomitable  power  of  will,  helped  by 
her  exceptional  lack  of  scruple,  she  had  always  managed  to 
accomplish  her  purpose.  She  had  always  found  hitherto  that 
she  was  more  pitiless,  and  therefore  more  efficient,  than  any 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  519 

one  opposed  to  her  in  a  severe  struggle  of  wills.  But  Dion 
Leith  was  beginning  to  cause  her  serious  uneasiness.  She  had 
known  from  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance  that  he  was 
an  exceptional  man;  since  his  tragedy  she  had  realized  that 
the  exceptional  circumstances  of  his  life  had  accentuated  his 
individuality.  In  sorrow,  in  deterioration,  he  had  broken  loose 
from  restraint.  She  had  helped  to  make  him  what  he  had 
now  become,  the  most  difficult  man  she  had  ever  had  to  deal 
with.  When  he  had  crossed  the  river  to  her  he  had  burnt  all 
the  boats  behind  him.  If  he  had  sometimes  been  weak  in 
goodness,  in  those  former  days  long  past,  in  what  he  considered 
as  evil  —  Mrs.  Clarke  did  not  see  things  in  white  and  black 
—  he  had  developed  a  peculiar  persistence  and  determination 
which  were  very  like  strength. 

Looking  back,  Mrs.  Clarke  realized  that  the  definite  change 
in  Dion,  which  marked  the  beginning  of  a  new  development, 
dated  from  the  night  in  the  garden  at  Buyukderer  when  Jimmy 
had  so  nearly  learnt  the  truth.  On  that  night  she  had  forced 
Dion  to  save  her  reputation  with  her  child  by  lying  and  playing 
the  hypocrite  to  a  boy  who  looked  up  to  him  and  trusted  in 
him.  Dion  had  not  forgotten  his  obedience.  Perhaps  he  hated 
her  because  of  it  in  some  secret  place  of  his  soul.  She  was 
sure  that  he  intended  to  make  her  pay  for  it.  He  had  obeyed 
her  in  what  she  considered  as  a  very  trifling  matter.  (For 
of  course  Jimmy  had  to  be  deceived.)  But  since  then  he  had 
often  shown  a  bitter,  even  sometimes  a  brutal,  disposition  to 
make  her  obey  him.  She  could  not  fully  understand  the  meas- 
ure of  his  resentment  because  she  had  none  of  his  sense  of 
honor  and  did  not  share  his  instinctive  love  of  truth.  But  she 
knew  he  had  suffered  acutely  in  tricking  and  lying  to  Jimmy. 

On  that  night,  then,  he  had  burnt  his  boats.  She  herself 
had  told  him  to  do  it  when  she  had  said  to  him,  "  Give  your- 
self wholly  to  me."  She  was  beginning  to  regret  that  she  had 
ever  said  that. 

At  first,  in  her  perversity,  she  had  curiously  enjoyed  Dion's 
misery.  It  had  wrapped  him  in  a  garment  that  was  novel. 
It  had  thrown  about  him  a  certain  romance.  But  now  she 
was  becoming  weary  of  it.  She  had  had  enough  of  it  and 
enough  of  him.  That  horrible  process,  which  she  knew  so 
well,  had  repeated  itself  once  more:  she  had  wanted  a  thing; 
she  had  striven  for  it;  she  had  obtained  it;  she  had  enjoyed 
it  (for  she  knew  well  how  to  enjoy  and  never  thought  that 
the  game  was  not  worth  the  candle).  And  then,  by  slow, 


520  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

almost  imperceptible  degrees,  her  power  of  enjoyment  had 
begun  to  lessen.  Day  by  day  it  had  lost  in  strength.  She 
had  tried  to  stimulate  it,  to  deceive  herself  about  its  decay,  but 
the  time  had  come,  as  it  had  come  to  her  many  times  in  the 
past,  when  she  had  been  forced  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that 
it  was  no  longer  living  but  a  corpse.  Dion  Leith  had  played 
his  part  in  her  life.  She  wished  now  to  put  him  outside  of 
her  door.  She  had  made  sacrifices  for  him;  for  him  she  had 
run  risks.  All  that  was  very  well  so  long  as  he  had  had  the 
power  to  reward  her.  But  now  she  was  beginning  to  brood 
over  those  risks,  those  sacrifices,  with  resentment,  to  magnify 
them  in  her  mind;  she  was  beginning  to  be  angry  as  she  dwelt 
upon  that  which  distortedly  she  thought  of  as  her  unselfishness. 

After  Jimmy  had  left  Turkey  to  go  back  to  Eton,  and  the 
summer  had  died,  Mrs.  Clarke  had  fulfilled  her  promise  to 
Dion.  She  had  settled  at  Pera  for  the  winter,  and  she  had 
arranged  his  life  for  him.  From  the  moment  of  Jimmy's  de- 
parture Dion  had  given  himself  entirely  to  her.  He  had  even 
given  himself  with  a  sort  of  desperation.  She  had  been  aware 
of  his  fierce  concentration,  and  she  had  tasted  it  with  a  keen- 
ness of  pleasure,  she  had  savored  it  deliberately  and  fully  in 
the  way  of  an  epicure.  The  force  of  his  resolution  towards 
evil  —  it  was  just  that  —  had  acted  upon  her  abominably  sen- 
sitive temperament  as  a  strong  tonic.  That  period  had  been 
the  time  when,  to  her,  the  game  was  worth  the  candle,  was 
worth  a  whole  blaze  of  candles. 

Already,  then,  Dion  had  begun  to  show  the  new  difficult 
man  whom  she,  working  hand  in  hand  with  sorrow,  had  helped 
to  create  within  him;  but  she  had  at  first  enjoyed  his  crudities 
of  temper,  his  occasional  outbursts  of  brutality,  his  almost  fierce 
roughness  and  the  hardness  which  alternated  with  his  moments 
of  passion. 

She  had  understood  that  he  was  flinging  away  with  furious 
hands  all  the  baggage  of  virtue  he  had  clung  to  in  the  past, 
that  he  was  readjusting  his  life,  was  reversing  all  the  habits 
which  had  been  familiar  and  natural  to  him  in  the  existence 
with  Rosamund.  So  much  the  better,  she  had  thought.  The 
fact  that  he  was  doing  this  proved  to  her  her  power  over  him. 
She  had  smiled,  in  her  unsmiling  way,  upon  his  efforts  to  do 
what  she  had  told  him  to  do,  to  cut  away  the  cancer  that  wa? 
in  him  and  to  cut  away  all  that  was  round  it.  Away  with  the 
old  moralities,  the  old  hatred  of  lies  and  deceptions,  the  old 
love  of  sanity  and  purity  of  life. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  521 

But  away,  too,  with  the  old  reverence  for,  and  worship  of, 
the  woman  possessed. 

Dion  had  taken  to  heart  a  maxim  once  uttered  to  him  by 
Mrs.  Clarke  in  the  garden  at  Buyukderer.  Mention  had  been 
made  of  the  very  foolish  and  undignified  conduct  of  a  certain 
woman  in  Pera  society  who  had  been  badly  treated  by  a  young 
diplomat.  In  discussing  the  matter  Dion  had  chanced  to 
say: 

"  But  if  she  does  such  things  how  can  any  man  respect  her?  " 

Mrs.  Clarke's  reply,  spoken  with  withering  sarcasm,  had 
been: 

"  Women  don't  want  to  be  respected  by  men." 

Dion  had  not  forgotten  that  saying.  It  had  sunk  deep  into 
his  heart.  He  had  come  to  believe  it.  Even  when  he  thought 
of  Rosamund  still  he  believed  it.  He  had  respected  her,  and 
had  shown  his  respect  in  the  most  chivalrous  way  at  his  com- 
mand, and  she  had  never  really  loved  him.  Evidently  women 
were  not  what  he  had  thought  they  were.  Mrs.  Clarke  knew 
what  they  were  and  a  thousand  things  that  he  did  not  know. 
He  grasped  at  her  cynicism,  and  he  often  applied  it,  translated 
through  his  personality,  to  herself.  He  even  went  farther  in 
cynicism  than  she  had  ever  gone,  behaving  like  a  convert  to  a 
religion  which  had  the  charm  of  novelty.  He  praised  her  for 
her  capacities  as  a  liar,  a  hypocrite,  a  subtle  trickster,  a  thrower 
of  dust  in  the  eyes  of  her  world.  One  of  his  favorite  names 
for  her  was  "  dust- thrower."  Sometimes  he  abused  her.  She 
believed  that  at  moments  he  detested  her.  But  he  clung  to  her 
and  he  did  not  mean  to  give  her  up.  And  she  knew  that. 

After  that  horrible  night  when  Jimmy  had  waked  up  she 
had  succeeded  in  making  Dion  believe  that  he  was  deeply  loved 
by  her.  She  had  really  had  an  ugly  passion  for  him,  and  she 
had  contrived  easily  enough  to  dress  it  up  and  present  it  as 
love.  And  he  clung  to  that  semblance  of  love,  because  it  was 
all  that  he  had,  because  it  "./as  a  weapon  in  his  hand,  and 
because  he  had  made  for  it  a  sacrifice.  He  had  sacrificed  the 
truth  that  was  in  him,  and  he  had  received  in  part  payment 
the  mysterious  dislike  of  the  boy  who  had  formerly  looked  up 
to  him. 

Jimmy  had  never  been  friendly  with  Dion  since  the  night 
of  their  search  for  his  mother  in  the  garden. 

His  manner  towards  his  mother  had  changed  but  little.  He 
was  slightly  more  reserved  with  her  than  he  had  been.  Her 
faint  air  of  sarcasm  when,  in  Sonia's  room,  he  had  shown  her 


3-- 


IX  THE  WILDERNESS 


his  boyish  agitation,  had  made  a  considerable  impression  upon 
him.  He  was  unable  to  forget  it.  And  he  was  a  little  more 
formal  with  his  mother;  showed  her,  perhaps,  more  respect  than 
before.  But  the  change  was  trifling.  His  respect  for  Dion, 
however,  was  obviously  dead.  Indeed  he  had  begun  to  show 
a  scarcely  veiled  hostility  towards  Dion  in  the  summer  holi- 
days, and  in  the  recent  Easter  holidays,  spent  by  him  in  Pera, 
he  had  avoided  Dion  as  much  as  possible. 

"That  fellow  still  here!"  he  had  said,  with  boyish  gruff- 
ness,  when  his  mother  had  first  mentioned  Dion's  name  imme- 
diately after  his  arrival.  And  when  he  had  seen  Dion  he  had 
said  straight  out  to  his  mother  that  he  couldn't  "  stand  Leith 
at  any  price  now."  She  had  asked  him  why,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  him,  but  the  only  reply  she  had  succeeded  in  getting  had 
been  that  he  didn't  trust  the  fellow,  that  he  hadn't  trusted  Leith 
for  a  long  time. 

"  Since  when?  "  she  had  said. 

"  Can't  remember,"  had  been  the  non-committal  answer. 

It  seemed  as  if  Jimmy  had  seen  through  Dion's  insincerity 
in  the  garden  at  Buyukderer.  Yet  there  was  nothing  to  show 
that  he  had  not  accepted  his  mother's  insincerity  in  Sonia's 
room  at  its  face  value.  Even  Mrs.  Clarke  had  not  been  able 
to  understand  exactly  what  was  in  her  boy's  mind.  But 
Jimmy's  hostility  to  Dion  had  troubled  her  obscurely,  and 
had  added  to  her  growing  weariness  of  this  intrigue  something 
more  vital.  Her  intelligence  divined,  rather  than  actually  per- 
ceived, the  coming  into  her  life  of  a  definite  menace  to  her 
happiness,  if  happiness  it  could  be  called.  She  felt  as  if 
Jimmy  were  on  the  track  of  her  secret,  and  she  was  certain  that 
Dion  was  the  cause  of  the  boy's  unpleasant  new  alertness.  In 
the  past  she  had  taken  risks  for  Dion.  But  she  had  had  the 
great  reason  of  what  she  chose  to  call  passion.  That  reason  was 
gone  now.  She  was  resolved  not  to  take  the  greatest  of  all 
risks  for  a  man  whom  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of. 

She  was  resolved;  but  she  encountered  now  in  Dion  a  resolve 
which  she  had  not  suspected  he  was  capable  of,  and  which 
began  to  render  her  seriously  uneasy. 

Lady  Ingleton's  remark,  "  You  look  tired,"  had  struck  un- 
pleasantly on  Mrs.  Clarke's  ears,  and  she  came  away  from  the 
Embassy  that  day  with  them  in  her  mind.  She  was  on  foot. 
As  she  came  out  through  the  great  gateway  of  the  Embassy 
she  remembered  that  she  had  been  coming  from  it  on  that  day 
in  June  when  she  had  seen  Dion  Leith  for  the  first  time  in 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  523 

Pera.  A  sharp  thrill  had  gone  through  her  that  day.  He  had 
come.  He  had  obeyed  the  persistent  call  of  her  will.  What 
she  had  desired  for  so  long  would  be.  And  she  had  been 
fiercely  glad  for  two  reasons:  one  an  ordinary  reason,  the  other 
less  ordinary,  a  mysterious  reason  of  the  mind.  If  her  will 
had  played  her  false  for  once,  had  proved  inadequate,  she 
would  have  suffered  strangely.  When  she  knew  it  had  not  she 
had  triumphed.  But  now,  as  she  walked  onward  slowly,  she 
wished  she  had  never  seen  Dion  Leith  in  Pera,  she  wished  that 
her  will  had  played  her  false.  It  would  have  been  better  so, 
for  she  was  in  a  difficult  situation,  and  she  foresaw  that  it  was 
going  to  become  more  difficult.  She  was  assailed  by  that  re- 
curring desire  which  is  the  scourge  of  the  sensualist,  the  desire 
to  rid  herself  violently,  abruptly  and  forever  of  the  possession 
she  had  schemed  and  made  long  efforts  to  obtain.  Her  torch 
was  burnt  out.  She  wished  to  stamp  out  the  flame  of  another 
torch  which  still  glowed  with  a  baleful  fire. 

"And  Delia  has  noticed  something!  "  she  thought. 

The  thought  was  scarcely  out  of  her  mind  when  she  came 
face  to  face  with  Dion  Leith.  He  stopped  before  her. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  Embassy?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.  Delia  Ingleton  came  back  yesterday.  You  aren't 
going  to  call  there?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  I  happened  to  see  you  walking  in  that 
direction,  so  I  thought  I  would  wait  for  you." 

With  the  manner  of  a  man  exercising  a  right  he  turned  to 
walk  back  with  her.  A  flame  of  irritation  scorched  her,  but 
she  did  not  show  any  emotion.  She  only  said  quietly: 

"  You  know  I  am  not  particularly  fond  of  being  seen  with 
men  in  the  Grande  Rue." 

"  Very  well.  If  you  like,  I'll  come  to  your  flat  by  a  round- 
about way.  I'll  be  there  five  minutes  after  you  are." 

Before  she  had  time  to  say  anything  he  was  gone,  striding 
through  the  crowd. 

Mrs.  Clarke  walked  on  and  came  into  the  Grande  Rue. 

She  lived  in  a  flat  in  a  street  which  turned  out  of  the  Grande 
Rue  on  the  left  not  very  far  from  the  Taxim  Garden.  As  she 
walked  on  slowly  she  was  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  force 
a  break  with  Dion.  She  had  great  courage  and  was  naturally 
ruthless,  yet  for  once  she  was  beset  by  indecision.  She  did 
not  any  longer  feel  sure  that  she  could  dominate  this  man.  She 
had  bent  him  to  her  will  when  she  took  him;  but  could  she  do 
so  when  she  wished  to  get  rid  of  him? 


524  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

When  she  reached  the  house,  on  the  second  floor  of  which 
was  her  flat,  she  found  him  there  waiting  for  her. 

"  You  must  have  walked  very  quickly,  Dion,"  she  said. 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  he  replied  bruskly.  "  You  walked  very 
slowly." 

"  I  feel  tired  to-day." 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  tired." 

"  Every  woman  is  tired  sometimes." 

They  began  to  ascend  the  staircase.     There  was  no  lift. 

"Are  you  going  out  to-night?"  she  heard  him  say  behind 
her. 

"  No.     I  shall  go  to  bed  early." 

"  I'll  stay  till  then." 

"  You  know  you  can't  stay  very  late  here." 

She  heard  him  laugh. 

"When  you've  just  said  you  are  going  to  bed  early!  " 

She  said  nothing  more  till  they  reached  the  flat.  He  fol- 
lowed her  in  and  put  his  hat  down. 

"Will  you  have  tea?  " 

"No,  thanks;  nothing." 

"  Go  into  the  drawing-room.     I'll  come  in  a  moment." 

She  left  him  and  went  into  her  bedroom. 

He  waited  for  her  in  the  drawing-room.  At  first  he  sat 
down.  The  room  was  full  of  the  scent  of  flowers,  and  he 
remembered  the  strong  flowery  scent  which  had  greeted  him 
when  he  visited  the  villa  at  Buyukderer  for  the  first  time. 
How  long  ago  that  seemed  —  aeons  ago!  A  few  minutes 
passed,  registered  by  the  ticking  of  a  little  clock  of  exquisite 
bronze  work  on  the  mantelpiece.  She  did  not  come.  He  felt 
restless.  He  always  felt  restless  in  Constantinople.  Now  he 
got  up  and  walked  about  the  room,  turning  sharply  from  time 
to  time,  pausing  when  he  turned,  then  resuming  his  walk. 
Once,  as  he  turned,  he  found  himself  exactly  opposite  to  a 
mirror.  He  stared  into  it  and  saw  a  man  still  young,  but  lined, 
with  sunken  eyes,  a  mouth  drooping  and  bitter,  a  head  on 
which  the  dark  hair  was  no  longer  thick  and  springy.  His 
hair  had  retreated  from  the  temples,  and  this  fact  had  changed 
his  appearance,  had  lessened  his  good  looks,  and  at  the  same 
time  had  given  to  his  face  an  odd  suggestion  of  added  intellec- 
tuality which  was  at  war  with  the  plain  stamp  of  dissipation 
imprinted  upon  it.  Even  in  repose  his  face  was  almost  hor- 
ribly expressive. 

As  he  stared  into  the  glass  he  thought: 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  525 

"  If  I  cut  off  my  mustache  I  should  look  like  a  tragic  actor 
who  was  a  thorough  bad  lot." 

He  turned  away,  frowning,  and  resumed  his  walk.  Presently 
he  stood  still  and  looked  about  the  room.  He  was  getting  im- 
patient. Irritability  crept  through  him.  He  almost  hated  Mrs. 
Clarke  for  keeping  him  waiting  so  long. 

"  Why  the  devil  doesn't  she  come?  "  he  thought. 

He  stood  trying  to  control  his  nervous  anger,  clenching  his 
muscular  hands,  and  looking  from  one  piece  of  furniture  to 
another,  from  one  ornament  to  another  ornament,  with  quickly 
shifting  eyes. 

His  attention  was  attracted  by  something  unusual  in  the 
room  which  he  had  not  noticed  till  now.  On  a  writing-table 
of  ebony  near  one  of  the  windows  he  saw  a  large  photograph 
in  a  curious  frame  of  ruddy  arbutus  wood.  He  had  never 
before  seen  a  photograph  in  any  room  lived  in  by  Mrs.  Clarke, 
and  he  had  heard  her  say  that  photographs  killed  a  room,  and 
might  easily  kill,  too,  with  their  staring  impotence,  any  affec- 
tion one  felt  for  the  friends  they  represented.  Whose  photo- 
graph could  this  be  which  triumphed  over  such  a  dislike?  He 
walked  to  the  table,  bent  down  and  saw  a  standing  boy  in 
flannels,  bare-headed,  with  thick,  disordered  hair  and  bare  arms, 
holding  in  his  large  hands  a  cricket  bat.  It  was  Jimmy,  and 
his  eyes  looked  straight  into  Dion's. 

A  door  clicked.  There  was  a  faint  rustling.  Mrs.  Clarke 
walked  into  the  room. 

Dion  turned  round. 

"  What's  this  photograph  doing  here  ?  "  he  asked  roughly. 

"Doing?" 

"  Yes.     You  hate  photographs.     I've  heard  you  say  so." 

"  Jimmy  gave  it  to  me  on  my  birthday  just  before  he  left 
for  England.  It's  quite  a  good  one." 

"  You  are  going  to  keep  it  here?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  keep  it  here.     Come  and  sit  down." 

He  did  not  move. 

"  Jimmy  loathes  me,"  he  said. 

"  Nonsense." 

"  He  does.  Through  you  he  has  come  to  loathe  me,  and 
you  keep  his  photograph  here " 

"  I  don't  allow  any  one  to  criticize  what  I  do  in  my  own 
drawing-room,"  she  interrupted.  "  You  are  really  childish 
to-day." 

His  intense  irritability  had  communicated  itself  to  her.     She 


526  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

felt  an  almost  reckless  desire  to  get  rid  of  him.  His  look  of 
embittered  wretchedness  tormented  her  nerves.  She  wondered 
how  it  had  ever  been  able  to  interest  her,  even  to  lure  her. 
She  was  amazed  at  her  own  perversity. 

"  I  cannot  allow  you  to  come  here  if  you  are  going  to  try 
to  interfere  with  my  arrangements,"  she  added,  with  a  sort  of 
fierce  coldness. 

"  I  have  a  right  to  come  here." 

"  You  have  not.  You  have  no  rights  over  me,  none  at  all. 
I  have  made  a  great  many  sacrifices  for  you,  far  too  many,  but 
I  shall  never  sacrifice  my  complete  independence  for  you  or 
for  any  one." 

"  Sacrifices  for  me!  "  he  exclaimed. 

He  snatched  up  the  photograph,  held  it  with  both  his  hands, 
exerted  his  strength,  smashed  the  glass,  broke  the  frame,  tore 
the  photograph  in  half,  and  threw  it,  the  fragments  of  red  wood 
and  the  bits  of  glass  on  the  table. 

"  You've  made  your  boy  hate  me,  and  you  shan't  have  him 
there,"  he  said  savagely. 

"  How  dare  you!  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice. 

She  flung  out  her  hands.  In  snatching  at  the  ruined  photo- 
graph she  picked  up  with  it  a  fragment  of  glass.  It  cut  her 
hand  slightly,  and  a  thin  thread  of  blood  ran  down  over  her 
white  skin. 

"Oh,  your  hand!"  exclaimed  Dion,  in  a  changed  voice. 
"It's  bleeding!  " 

He  pulled  out  his  handkerchief. 

"Leave  it  alone!     I  forbid  you  to  touch  it!  " 

She  put  the  fragments  of  the  photograph  inside  her  dress, 
gently,  tenderly  even.  Then  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  telegraph  to  England  for  another  photo- 
graph to  be  sent  out,  and  it  will  stand  here,"  she  said,  pointing 
with  her  bleeding  hand  at  the  writing-table.  "  It  will  always 
stand  on  my  table  here  and  in  the  Villa  Hafiz." 

Then  she  bound  her  own  handkerchief  about  her  hand  and 
Jang  the  bell.  Sonia  came. 

"  I've  stupidly  cut  my  hand,  Sonia.  Come  and  tie  it  up. 
Mr.  Leith  is  going  in  a  moment,  and  then  you  shall  bathe 
it." 

Sonia  looked  at  Dion,  and,  without  a  word,  adjusted  the 
handkerchief  deftly,  and  pinned  it  in  place  with  a  safety-pin 
which  she  drew  out  of  her  dress.  Then  she  left  the  room  with 
her  flat-footed  walk.  As  she  shut  the  door  Dion  said  doggedly : 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  527 

"  You'd  better  let  her  bathe  it  now,  because  I'm  not  going 
in  a  moment" 

"  When  I  ask  you  to  go  you  will  go." 

"  Sit  down.     I  must  speak  to  you." 

He  pointed  to  a  large  sofa.  She  went  very  deliberately  to 
a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"  Why  don't  you  sit  on  the  sofa?  " 

"  I  prefer  this." 

He  sat  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  must  speak  to  you  about  Jimmy." 

"Well?" 

"  What's  the  matter  with  him?  What  have  you  been  up  to 
with  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  why  should  he  turn  against  me  and  not  against  you?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean." 

"  You  do.  It's  since  that  night  in  the  garden  when  you 
made  me  lie  to  him.  Ever  since  that  night  he's  been  absolutely 
different  with  me.  You  know  it." 

"  I  can't  help  it." 

"  He  believed  your  lies  to  him,  apparently.  Why  doesn't  he 
believe  mine?  " 

"Of  course  he  believed  what  you  told  him." 

"  He  didn't,  or  he  wouldn't  have  changed.  He  hates  your 
having  anything  to  do  with  me.  He's  told  you  so.  I'm  sure 
of  it" 

"  Jimmy  would  never  dare  to  do  that." 

"  Anyhow,  you  know  he  does." 

She  did  not  deny  it. 

"  Remember  this,"  Dion  said,  looking  straight  at  her,  "  I'm 
not  going  to  be  sacrificed  a  second  time  on  account  of  a  child." 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Clarke  sat  without 
moving,  her  lovely  head  leaning  against  a  cushion  which  was 
fastened  near  the  top  of  the  back  of  the  chair,  she  said: 

"  What  do  you  mean  exactly  by  being  sacrificed,  Dion?  " 

Her  manner  had  changed.  The  hostility  had  gone  out  of  it. 
Her  husky  voice  sounded  gentle  almost,  and  she  looked  at  him 
earnestly. 

"  I  mean  just  this:  my  life  with  the  woman  I  once  cared  for 
was  smashed  to  pieces  by  a  child,  my  own  dead  child.  I'm 
not  going  to  allow  my  life  with  you  to  be  smashed  to  pieces 
by  Jimmy.  Isn't  a  man  more  than  a  child?  Can't  he  feel 
more  than  a  child  feels,  give  more  than  a  child  can  give  ?  Isn't 


528  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

a  thing  full  grown  as  valuable,  as  worth  having  as  a  thing 
that's  immature?" 

He  spoke  with  almost  passionate  resentment. 

"  D'you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man's  love  always  means  less 
to  a  woman  than  a  child's  love  means?  " 

Silently,  while  he  spoke,  she  compared  the  passion  she  had 
had  for  Dion  Leith  with  the  love  she  would  always  have  for 
Jimmy.  The  one  was  dead;  the  other  could  not  die.  That 
was  the  difference  between  such  things. 

"  The  two  are  so  different  that  it  is  useless  to  compare  them," 
she  replied.  "  Surely  you  could  not  be  jealous  of  a  child." 

"  I  could  be  jealous  of  anything  that  threatened  me  in  my 
life  with  you.  It's  all  I've  got  now,  and  I  won't  have  it  inter- 
fered with." 

"But  neither  must  you  attempt  to  interfere  with  my  life  with 
my  child,"  she  said,  very  calmly. 

"  You  dragged  me  into  your  life  with  Jimmy.  You  have  al- 
ways used  Jimmy  as  a  means.  It  began  long  ago  in  London 
when  you  were  at  Claridges." 

"  There  is  no  need " 

"  There  is  need  to  make  you  see  clearly  why  I  have  every 
right  to  take  a  stand  now  against  —  against " 

"Against  what?" 

"  I  feel  you're  changing.  I  don't  trust  you.  You  are  not  to 
be  trusted.  Since  Jimmy  has  been  here  again  I  feel  that  you 
are  different." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  be  specially  careful  now  the  boy  is  begin- 
ning to  grow  up.  He  notices  things  now  he  wouldn't  have  no- 
ticed a  year  or  two  ago.  And  it  will  get  worse  from  year  to 
year.  That  isn't  my  fault." 

His  sunken  eyes  looked  fixedly  at  her  from  the  midst  of  the 
network  of  wrinkles  which  disfigured  his  face. 

"  Now  what  are  you  trying  to  lead  up  to?  "  he  said. 

"  It's  very  foolish  of  you  to  be  always  suspicious.  Only 
stupid  people  are  always  suspecting  others  of  sharp  practise." 

"  I'm  stupid  compared  with  you,  but  I'm  not  so  stupid  that 
I  haven't  learnt  to  know  you  better  than  other  people  know  you, 
better,  probably,  than  any  one  else  on  earth  knows  you.  It  is 
entirely  through  you  that  Jimmy  has  got  to  hate  me.  I'm  not 
going  to  let  you  use  his  hatred  of  me  as  a  weapon  against  me. 
I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you  this,  but  I  thought  I'd  wait  till  he 
had  gone." 

"  Why  should  I  want  to  use  a  weapon  against  you  ?  " 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  529 

"  I  don't  know.  It  isn't  always  easy  to  know  why  you  want 
things.  You're  such  an  inveterate  liar,  and  so  tricky  that  you'd 
puzzle  the  devil  himself." 

"  Do  you  realize  that  all  you  are  saying  to-day  implies  some- 
thing? It  implies  that  in  your  opinion  I  am  not  a  free  agent, 
that  you  consider  you  have  a  right  to  govern  my  actions.  But 
I  deny  that." 

She  spoke  firmly,  but  without  any  heat. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  what  we  are  to  each  other  gives 
me  no  more  rights  over  you  than  mere  acquaintances  have?  " 

"  It  gives  you  no  more  rights  over  me  than  mere  acquaintances 
have." 

He  sat  looking  at  her  for  a  minute.     Then  he  said : 

"  Cynthia,  come  and  sit  here,  please,  beside  me." 

"  Why  should  I?" 

"  Please  come." 

"  Very  well." 

She  got  up,  came  to  the  sofa  with  a  sort  of  listless  decision, 
and  sat  down  beside  him.  He  took  her  uninjured  hand.  His 
hand  was  burning  with  heat.  He  closed  and  unclosed  his  fin- 
gers as  he  went  on  speaking. 

"  What  is  there  in  such  a  relation  as  ours  if  it  carries  no 
rights?  You  have  altered  my  whole  life.  Is  that  nothing? 
I  live  out  here  only  because  of  you.  I  have  nothing  out  here 
but  you.  All  these  months,  ever  since  we  left  Buyukderer,  I've 
lived  just  as  you  wished.  I  went  into  society  at  Buyukderer 
because  you  wanted  me  to.  When  you  didn't  care  any  more 
about  my  doing  that  I  lived  in  the  shade  in  Galata.  I've  fallen 
in  with  every  deception  you  thought  necessary,  I've  told  every 
lie  you  wished  me  to  tell.  Ever  since  you  made  me  lie  to 
Jimmy  I  haven't  cared  much.  But  you'll  never  know,  because 
you  can't  understand  such  things,  what  the  loss  of  Jimmy's  con- 
fidence and  respect  has  meant  to  me.  However,  that's  all  past. 
I'm  as  much  of  a  hypocrite  as  you  are;  I'm  as  false  as  you 
are;  I'm  as  rotten  as  you  are  —  with  other  people.  But  don't, 
for  God's  sake,  let's  be  rotten  with  each  other.  That  would  be 
too  foul,  like  thieves  falling  out." 

"  I've  always  been  perfectly  straight  with  you,"  she  said 
coldly.  "  I  have  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with." 

The  closing  of  his  fingers  on  her  hand,  and  their  unclosing, 
irritated  her  whole  body.  To-day  she  disliked  his  touch  in- 
tensely, so  intensely  that  she  could  scarcely  believe  she  had  ever 
liked  it,  longed  for  it,  schemed  for  it. 


530  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Please  keep  your  hand  still!  "  she  said. 

"What?" 

"  It  makes  me  nervous  your  doing  that.  Either  hold  my  hand 
or  don't  hold  it." 

"  I  don't  understand.     What  was  I  doing?  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  I've  always  been  straight  with  you.  I 
don't  know  why  you  are  attacking  me." 

"  I  feel  you  are  changing  towards  me.  So  I  thought  I'd  tell 
you  that  I  don't  intend  to  be  driven  out  a  second  time  by  a 
child.  It's  better  you  should  know  that.  Then  you  won't  at- 
tempt the  impossible." 

She  looked  into  his  sunken  eyes. 

"  Jimmy  has  got  to  dislike  you,"  she  said.  "  It's  unfortu- 
nate, but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  don't  know  exactly  why  it  is 
so.  It  may  be  because  he's  older,  just  at  the  age  when  boys 
begin  to  understand  about  men  and  women.  You're  not  al- 
ways quite  so  careful  before  him  as  you  might  be.  I  don't 
mean  in  what  you  say,  but  in  your  manner.  I  think  Jimmy 
fancies  you  like  me  in  a  certain  way.  I  think  he  probably  took 
it  into  his  head  that  you  were  hanging  about  the  garden  that 
night  because  perhaps  you  hoped  to  meet  me  there.  A  very 
little  more  and  he  might  begin  to  suspect  me.  You  have  been 
frank  with  me  to-day.  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  if  there  ever  was  a  question  of  my  losing 
Jimmy's  love  and  respect  I  should  fight  to  keep  them,  sacrifice 
anything  to  keep  them.  Jimmy  comes  first  with  me,  and  al- 
ways will.  It  couldn't  be  otherwise.  I  prefer  that  you  should 
know  it." 

He  shot  a  glance  at  her  that  was  almost  cunning.  She  had 
been  prepared  for  a  perhaps  violent  outburst,  but  he  only  said : 

"  Jimmy  won't  be  here  again  for  some  time,  so  we  needn't 
bother  about  him." 

She  was  genuinely  surprised,  but  she  did  not  show  it. 

"  It  was  you  who  brought  up  the  question,"  she  said. 

"  Never  mind.  Don't  worry  about  it.  If  Jimmy  comes  out 
for  the  summer  holidays " 

"  He  will,  of  course." 

"  Then  I  can  go  away  from  Buyukderer  just  for  thone  few 
weeks." 

"  I "  She  paused;  then  she  went  on:  "I  must  tell  you 

that  you  mustn't  come  to  Buyukderer  again  this  summer." 

"  Then  you  won't  go  there?  " 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  531, 

"  Of  course  I  must  go.  I  have  the  villa.  I  am  going  there 
next  week." 

"  If  you  go,  then  I  shall  go.  But  I'll  leave  when  Jimmy 
comes,  as  you  are  so  fussed  about  him." 

She  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  Dion  who  was  speak- 
ing to  her.  Often  she  had  heard  him  speak  violently,  irritably, 
even  cruelly  and  rudely.  But  there  was  a  sort  of  ghastly  soft- 
ness in  his  voice.  His  hand  still  held  hers,  but  its  grasp  had 
relaxed.  In  his  touch,  as  in  his  voice,  there  was  a  softness 
which  disquieted  her. 

"  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  let  you  come  to  Buyukderer  this  sum- 
mer," she  said.  "  Once  did  not  matter.  But  if  you  came 
again  my  reputation  would  suffer." 

"  Then  I'll  stay  at  some  other  place  on  the  Bosporus  and 
come  over." 

"  That  would  be  just  as  bad." 

"  Do  you  seriously  mean  that  we  are  to  be  entirely  separated 
during  the  whole  of  this  summer?  " 

"  I  must  be  careful  of  my  reputation  now  Jimmy's  growing 
up.  The  Bosporus  is  the  home  of  malicious  gossip." 

"  Do  answer  my  question.  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  to  be 
separated  during  the  summer?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  helped." 

"  It  can  be  helped  very  easily.     Don't  go  to  Buyukderer." 

"  I  must.     I  have  the  villa." 

"  Let  it." 

"  I  couldn't  possibly  stand  Constantinople  in  the  summer." 

"  There's  no  need  to  do  that  There  are  other  places  besides 
Constantinople  and  Buyukderer.  You  might  go  to  one  of  them. 
Or  you  might  travel." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  looking  down. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  might  travel  with  you?  "  she  said,  at 
last. 

"  Not  with  me.     But  I  could  happen  to  be  where  you  are." 

"  That's  not  possible.     Some  one  would  get  to  know  of  it." 

"  How  absurdly  ingenue  you  have  become  all  of  a  sudden !  " 
he  said,  with  soft,  but  scathing,  irony. 

And  he  laughed,  let  out  a  long,  low,  and  apparently  spon- 
taneous, laugh,  as  if  he  were  genuinely  amused. 

"  Really  one  would  hardly  imagine  that  you  were  the  heroine 
of  the  famous  divorce  case  which  interested  all  London  not 
so  very  long  ago.  When  I  remember  the  life  you  acknowl- 


532  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

edged  you  had  lived,  the  life  you  were  quite  defiant  about,  I 
can't  help  being  amused  by  this  sudden  access  of  conventional 
Puritanism.  You  declared  then  that  you  didn't  choose  to  live 
a  dull,  orthodox  life.  One  would  suppose  that  the  leopard  could 
change  his  spots  after  all." 

While  he  was  speaking  she  lifted  her  head  and  looked  fixedly 
at  him. 

"  It's  just  that  very  divorce  case  which  has  made  me  alter 
my  way  of  living,"  she  said.  "  Any  one  who  knew  anything 
of  the  world,  any  one  but  a  fool,  could  see  that." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  a  fool,"  he  returned  doggedly.  "  I  was  a 
fool  when  I  ran  straight,  and  it  seems  I'm  a  fool  when  I  run 
crooked.  You've  got  to  make  the  best  of  me  as  I  am.  Take 
your  choice.  Go  to  Buyukderer  if  you  like.  If  you  do  I  shall 
stay  on  the  Bosporus.  Or  travel  if  you  like,  and  I'll  happen 
to  be  where  you  are.  It's  quite  easy.  It's  done  every  day. 
But  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  I  can't  give  you  points  in 
the  game  of  throwing  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  public." 

"  It's  too  late  now  to  let  the  villa,  even  if  I  cared  to.  And 
I  can't  afford  to  shut  it  up  and  leave  it  standing  empty  while 
I  wander  about  in  hotels.  I  shall  go  to  Buyukderer  next 
week." 

"  All  right.  I'll  go  back  to  the  rooms  I  had  last  year,  and 
we  can  live  as  we  did  then.  Give  me  the  key  of  the  garden 
gate  and  I  can  use  the  pavilion  as  my  sitting-room  again.  It's 
all  quite  simple." 

A  frown  altered  her  white  face.  His  mention  of  the  pa- 
vilion had  suddenly  recalled  to  her  exactly  what  she  had  felt 
for  him  last  year.  She  compared  it  with  what  she  felt  for  him 
now.  With  an  impulsive  movement  she  pulled  her  hand  away 
from  his. 

"  I  shall  not  give  you  the  key.  I  can't  have  you  there.  I 
will  not.  People  have  begun  to  talk." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  They  never  see  us  together  here.  You 
have  taken  good  care  of  that  in  the  last  few  months.  Why, 
we've  met  like  thieves  in  the  night." 

"  Here,  yes.  In  a  great  town  one  can  manage,  but  not  in  a 
place  like  Buyukderer." 

He  leaned  forward  and  said,  with  dogged  resolution: 

"  One  thing  is  certain  —  I  will  not  be  separated  from  you 
during  the  summer.  Do  whatever  you  like,  but  remember  that. 
Make  your  own  plans.  I  will  fall  in  with  them.  But  I  shall 
pass  the  summer  where  you  pass  it" 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  533 

"I  —  really  I  didn't  know  you  cared  so  much  about  me,"  she 
murmured,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"Care  for  you!  " 

He  stared  into  her  face  and  the  twinkles  twitched  about  his 
eyes. 

"  How  should  I  not  care  for  you?  " 

He  gripped  her  hand  again. 

"Haven't  you  taught  me  how  to  live  in  the  dust?  Haven't 
you  shown  me  the  folly  of  being  honorable  and  the  fun  of  de- 
ceiving others?  Haven't  you  led  me  into  the  dark  and  made 
me  able  to  see  in  it?  And  there's  such  a  lot  to  see  in  the  dark! 
Why,  good  God,  Cynthia,  you've  remade  me,  and  then  you  won- 
der at  my  caring  for  you!  You  make  a  man  in  your  own 
image  and  then  you're  surprised  at  his  worshipping  you. 
Where's  your  cleverness  ?  " 

"  I  often  believe  you  detest  me." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  a  woman  such  as  you  are  can  be  loved  and 
hated  almost  at  the  same  time.  But  she  can't  be  given  up. 
No!" 

As  she  looked  at  him  she  saw  the  red  gleam  of  the  torch  he 
carried.  Hers  had  long  ago  died  out  into  blackness. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  really  wish  to  ruin  my  reputation  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it!  You're  so  clever  that  you  can  always  guard 
against  that." 

"  Yes,  I  can  when  I'm  dealing  with  gentlemen,"  she  said,  with 
sudden,  vicious  sharpness.  "  But  you  are  behaving  like  a  cad. 
Of  all  the  men  I " 

She  stopped.  A  sort  of  nervous  fury  possessed  her.  It  had 
nearly  driven  her  to  make  a  false  step.  And  yet  —  would 
it  be  a  false  step?  As  she  paused,  looking  at  Dion,  marking 
the  hard  obstinacy  in  his  eyes,  feeling  the  hard,  hot  grip  of 
his  hand,  it  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  she  had  blundered 
upon  the  one  way  out,  the  way  of  escape.  Amid  the  wreckage 
of  his  beliefs  she  knew  that  Dion  still  held  to  one  belief,  which 
had  been  shaken  once,  but  which  her  cool  adroitness  had  saved 
and  made  firm  in  a  critical  moment.  If  she  destroyed  it  now 
would  he  let  her  go?  Just  how  low  had  he  fallen  through  her? 
She  wished  she  knew.  But  she  did  not  know,  and  she  waited, 
looking  at  him. 

"  Go  on !  "  he  said.     "  Of  all  the  men  you  —  what?  " 

"  How  low  down  is  he  ?  How  low  down  ?  "  she  asked  her- 
self. 

"  Can  you  go  on?  "  he  said  brutally. 


534  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Of  all  the  men  who  have  cared  for  me  you  are  the  only 
man  who  has  ever  dared  to  interfere  with  my  freedom,"  she 
said. 

Her  voice  had  become  almost  raucous,  and  a  faint  dull  red 
strangely  discolored  and  altered  her  face. 

"  I  will  not  permit  it.  I  shall  go  to  Buyukderer,  and  I  for- 
bid you  to  follow  me  there.  Now  it's  getting  late  and  I'm  tired. 
Please  go  away." 

"  Men  who  have  cared  for  you !  " 

"  Yes.     Yes." 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that?     D'you  mean  Brayfield?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  there  been  many  others  who  have  cared  as  Brayfield 
did?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Hadi  Bey  was  one  of  them,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  Dumeny  was  another?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Poor  fellows!" 

His  lips  were  smiling,  but  his  eyes  looked  dreadfully  intent 
and  searching. 

"  You  made  them  suffer  and  gave  them  no  reward.  I  can 
see  you  doing  it  and  enjoying  it." 

"  That's  untrue." 

"What  is  untrue?" 

"  To  say  that  I  gave  them  no  reward." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  tap  on  the  door. 

"  Come  in !  "  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  in  her  ordinary  voice. 

Sonia  opened  the  door  and  came  in. 

"  Excuse  me,  Madame,"  she  said,  "  but  you  told  me  I  was 
to  bathe  your  hand.  If  it  is  not  bathed  it  will  look  horrible 
to-morrow.  I  have  the  warm  water  all  ready." 

She  stood  in  front  of  her  mistress,  broad,  awkward  and  yet 
capable.  Dion  felt  certain  this  woman  meant  to  get  rid  of 
him  because  she  was  aware  that  her  mistress  wanted  him  to 
go.  He  had  always  realized  that  Sonia  knew  Mrs.  Clarke  bet- 
ter than  any  other  woman  did.  As  for  himself  —  she  had  never 
shown  any  feeling  towards  him.  He  did  not  know  whether  she 
liked  him  or  disliked  him.  But  now  he  knew  that  he  disliked 
her. 

He  looked  almost  menacingly  at  her. 

"  Your  mistress  can't  go  at  present,"  he  said.  "  Her  hand  is 
all  right.  It  was  only  a  scratch." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  535 

Sonia  looked  at  her  mistress. 

"  Sonia  is  quite  right,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke,  getting  up.  "  And 
as  the  water  is  warm  I  will  go.  Good-by." 

"  I  will  stay  here  till  you  have  finished,"  he  said,  still  look- 
ing at  Sonia. 

"  It's  getting  very  late.  We  might  finish  our  talk  to-mor- 
row." 

"  I  will  stay." 

After  a  slight  pause  Mrs.  Clarke,  whose  face  was  still  discol- 
ored with  red,  turned  to  the  maid  and  said: 

"  Go  away,  Sonia." 

Sonia  went  away  very  slowly.  At  the  door  she  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  looked  round.  Then  she  disappeared,  and  the  door 
closed  slowly  and  as  if  reluctantly  behind  her. 

"  Xow  what  did  you  mean?  "  Dion  said.  ,, 

He  got  up. 

"What  did  you  mean?" 

"  Simply  this,  that  my  husband  ought  to  have  won  his 
case." 

"Ah!" 

He  stood  with  his  hands  hanging  at  his  sides,  looking  im- 
passive, with  his  head  bent  and  the  lids  drooping  over  his  eyes. 
She  waited  —  for  her  freedom.  She  did  not  mind  the  dis- 
gust which  she  felt  like  an  emanation  in  the  darkening  room,  if 
only  it  would  carry  him  far  enough  in  hatred  of  her.  Would 
it  do  that? 

There  was  a  very  long  silence  between  them.  During  it  he 
remained  motionless.  With  his  hanging  hands  and  his  droop- 
ing head  he  looked,  she  thought,  almost  as  much  like  a  puppet 
as  like  a  man.  His  whole  body  had  a  strange  aspect  of  list- 
lessness,  almost  of  feebleness.  Yet  she  knew  how  muscular 
and  powerful  he  still  was,  although  he  had  long  ago  ceased 
from  taking  care  of  his  body.  The  silence  lasted  so  long,  and 
he  stood  so  absolutely  still,  that  she  began  to  feel  uneasy, 
even  faintly  afraid.  The  nerves  in  her  body  were  tingling. 
They  could  have  braced  themselves  to  encounter  violence,  but 
this  immobility  and  dumbness  tormented  them.  She  wanted  to 
speak,  to  move,  but  she  felt  obliged  to  wait  for  him.  At  last 
he  looked  up.  He  came  to  her,  lifted  his  hands  and  laid  them 
heavily  on  her  emaciated  shoulders. 

"  So  that's  what  you  are!  " 

He  stared  into  her  haggard  face.  She  met  his  eyes  reso- 
lutely. 

"That's  what  you  are!" 


536  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  have  you  told  me  this  to-day  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  knew  it  long  ago." 

"  Answer  me.     Why  have  you  told  me  to-day?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  do.  You  have  told  me  to-day  because  you  have  had 
enough  of  me.  You  meant  to  use  Jimmy  to  get  rid  of  me  as 
you  once  used  him  to  get  to  know  me  more  intimately.  When 
you  found  that  wouldn't  serve  your  turn,  you  made  up  your  mind 
to  speak  a  word  or  two  of  truth.  You  thought  you  would  dis- 
gust me  into  leaving  you." 

"  Of  course  you  knew  it  long  ago,"  she  repeated  in  a  dull 
voice. 

"  I  didn't  know  it.  I  might  have  suspected  it.  In  fact, 
once  I  did,  and  I  told  you  so.  But  you  drove  out  my  suspicion. 
I  don't  know  exactly  how.  And  since  then  —  after  you  got 
your  verdict  in  London  I  saw  Dumeny  smile  at  you  as  he  went 
out  of  the  Court.  I  have  never  been  able  to  forget  that  smile. 
Now  I  understand  it.  One  by  one  you've  managed  to  get  rid 
of  them  all.  And  now  at  last  you've  arrived  at  me,  and  you've 
said  to  yourself,  '  It's  his  turn  to  be  kicked  out  now.'  Haven't 
you?" 

"  Nothing  can  last  forever,"  she  murmured  huskily. 

"  No.  But  this  time  you're  not  going  to  scrawl  '  finis '  ex- 
actly when  you  want  to." 

"  It's  getting  dark,  and  I'm  tired.     My  hand  is  hurting  me." 

He  gripped  her  shoulders  more  firmly. 

"  If  you  meant  some  day  to  get  rid  of  me,  to  kick  me  out  as 
you've  kicked  out  the  others,"  he  said  grimly,  "  you  shouldn't 
have  made  me  come  to  you  that  night  when  Jimmy  was  at 
Buyukderer.  That  was  a  mistake  on  your  part." 

"  Why?  "  she  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Because  that  night  through  you  I  lost  something;  I  lost 
the  last  shred  of  my  self-respect.  Till  that  night  I  was  still 
clinging  on  to  it.  You  struck  my  hands  away  and  made  me  let 
go.  Now  I  don't  care.  And  that's  why  I'm  not  going  to  let 
you  treat  me  as  you've  treated  the  others.  I'm  not  going  to 
let  you  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  me  and  dismiss  me  into 
hell.  Your  list  closes  with  me,  Cynthia.  I'm  not  going  to 
give  you  up." 

She  shook  slightly  under  his  hands. 

"Why  are  you  trembling?  " 

"  I'm  not  trembling;  but  I'm  tired;  let  me  alone." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  537 

"  You  can  go  to  Sonia  now  if  you  like,  and  have  your  hand 
bathed." 

He  lifted  his  hands  from  her  shoulders,  but  she  did  not  move. 
'  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  she  asked. 
'  I  shall  wait  for  you  here." 
'Wait  for  me?" 

'  Yes.     We'll  dine  together  to-night." 
'Where?"  she  said  helplessly. 
'  Here,  if  you  like." 

'  There's  scarcely  anything  to  eat.     I  didn't  intend " 

'  I'll  take  you  out  somewhere.  It's  going  to  be  a  dark  night. 
We'll  manage  so  that  no  one  sees  us.  We'll  dine  together  and, 

after  dinner " 

"  I  must  come  home  early.     I'm  very  tired." 
"  After  dinner  we'll  go  to  those  rooms  you  found  so  cleverly 
near  the  Persian  Khan." 
She  shuddered. 

"  Now  go  and  bathe  your  hand,  and  I'll  wait  here.     Only 
don't  be  too  long  or  I  shall  come  and  fetch  you.     And  don't  send 
Sonia  to  make  excuses,  for  it  will  be  no  use." 
He  sat  down  on  the  sofa. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  without  moving.  She  put  her  ban- 
daged hand  up  to  her  discolored  face.  Then  she  went  slowly 
out  of  the  room. 

He  sat  waiting  for  her  to  come  back,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 

He  felt  like  a  man  sunk  in  mire.  He  felt  the  mire  creeping 
up  to  his  throat. 

Almost  at  that  same  hour  beside  a  platform  at  Victoria  Sta- 
tion in  London  a  long  train  with  "  Dover  "  placarded  on  it 
was  drawn  up.  Before  the  door  of  a  first-class  carriage  two 
women  in  plain  traveling  dresses  were  standing  with  a  white- 
haired  clergyman.  Presently  the  shorter  of  the  two  women  said 
to  the  other: 

"  I  think  I'll  get  in  now,  and  leave  you  to  last  words." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  the  clergyman. 

"  Good-by,  Father  Robertson." 

He  grasped  her  hand  warmly,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  great 
tenderness  shining  in  his  eyes. 

"  Take  good  care  of  her.     But  you  will,  I  know,"  he  said. 

Beatrice  Daventry  got  into  the  carriage,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  at  the  door.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she 


538  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

looked  at  the  two  figures  now  pacing  slowly  up  and  down  on 
the  platform;  she  wiped  them  away  quickly,  and  sat  down. 
She  was  bound  on  a  long  journey.  And  what  would  be  the 
end?  In  her  frail  body  Beatrice  had  a  strong  soul,  but  to-night 
she  was  stricken  with  a  painful  anxiety.  She  said  to  herself 
that  she  cared  about  something  too  much.  If  the  object  of  this 
journey  were  not  attained  she  felt  it  would  break  her  heart.  She 
shut  her  eyes,  and  she  conjured  up  a  child  whom  she  had  loved 
very  much  and  who  was  dead. 

"  Come  with  us,  Robin!  "  she  whispered.  "  Come  with  us  to 
your  father." 

And  the  whisper  was  like  a  prayer. 

"Beattie!" 

Rosamund's  voice  was  speaking. 

"  We  are  just  off." 

"Are  we?" 

"  Take  your  seats,  please !  "  shouted  a  loud  bass  voice. 

There  was  a  sound  of  the  banging  of  doors. 

Rosamund  leaned  out  of  the  window. 

"Good-by,  Father!" 

The  train  began  to  move. 

"  Good-by.     Cor  meum  vigilat." 

Rosamund  pulled  down  her  veil  quickly  over  her  face. 

She  was  weary  of  rebellion.  Yet  she  knew  that  deep  down 
within  her  dwelt  one  who  was  still  a  rebel.  She  was  starting 
on  a  great  journey  but  she  could  not  foresee  what  would  hap- 
pen at  its  end.  For  she  no  longer  knew  what  she  was  capa- 
ble of  doing,  and  what  would  be  too  great  a  task  for  her  poor 
powers.  She  was  trying;  she  would  try;  that  was  all  she  knew. 

As  the  train  pushed  on  through  the  fading  light  she  said  to 
herself  again  and  again: 

"  La  divina  volontate!    La  divina  volontate!  " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  WEEK  had  passed,  and  the  Villa  Hafiz  had  not  yet 
opened  its  door  to  receive  its  mistress.     The  servants, 
with  the  exception  of  Sonia,  had  arrived.     The  Greek 
butler  had  everything  in  order  downstairs.     Above  stairs  the 
big,  low  bed  was  made,  and  there  were  flowers  in  the  vases 
dotted  about  here  and  there  in  the  blue-and-green  sitting-room. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  539 

Osman,  the  gardener,  had  trimmed  the  rose-bushes,  had  care 
fully  cleaned  the  garden  seats,  and  had  swept  straying  leaves 
from  the  winding  paths.  The  fountain  sang  its  under-song 
above  the  lilies.  On  the  highest  terrace,  beyond  the  climbing 
garden,  the  pavilion  waited  for  the  woman  and  man  who  had 
hidden  themselves  in  it  to  go  down  into  the  darkness.  But 
no  one  slept  in  the  big,  low  bed,  or  sat  in  the  blue-and-green 
room;  the  garden  was  deserted;  by  night  no  feet  trod  softly  to 
the  pavilion. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Cynthia  Clarke  was  in  the  toils. 
She  who  loved  her  personal  freedom  almost  wildly  no  longer 
felt  free.  She  dared  not  go  to  Buyukderer. 

She  looked  back  to  that  night  when  she  had  told  Dion  Leith 
the  truth,  and  it  stood  out  among  all  the  nights  of  her  life, 
more  black  and  fatal  than  any  of  them,  because  on  it  she  had 
been  false  to  herself,  had  been  weak.  She  had  not  followed  up 
her  strength  in  words  by  strength  in  action!  She  had  allowed 
Dion  Leith  to  dominate  her  that  night,  to  make  of  her  against 
her  will  his  creature.  In  doing  that  she  had  taken  a  step  down 
—  a  step  away  from  the  path  in  which  hitherto  she  had  always 
walked.  And  that  departure  from  inflexible  selfishness  seemed 
strangely  to  have  weakened  her  will. 

She  was  afraid  of  Dion  because  she  felt  that  he  was  ungov- 
ernable by  her,  that  her  will  no  longer  meant  anything  to  him. 
He  did  not  brace  himself  to  defy  it;  simply,  he  did  not  bother 
about  it.  He  seemed  to  have  passed  into  a  region  where  such  a 
trifle  as  a  woman's  will  faded  away  from  his  perception. 

His  serpent  had  swallowed  up  hers. 

She  ought  to  have  defied  him  that  night,  to  have  risked  a 
violent  scene,  to  have  risked  everything.  Instead,  she  had  come 
back  to  the  drawing-room,  had  gone  out  into  the  night  with 
him,  had  even  gone  to  the  rooms  near  the  Persian  Khan.  She 
had  put  off,  had  said  to  herself  "To-morrow";  she  had  tried 
to  believe  that  Dion's  desperate  mood  would  pass,  that  he  needed 
gentle  handling  for  the  moment,  and  that,  if  treated  with  su- 
preme tact,  he  would  eventually  be  "  managed  "  into  letting  her 
have  her  will. 

But  now  she  had  no  illusions.  Her  distressed  eyes  saw  quite 
clearly,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  made  a  fatal  mistake  in  be- 
ing obedient  to  Dion  that  night.  She  felt  like  one  at  the  begin- 
ning of  an  inclined  plane  that  was  slippery  as  ice.  She  had 
stepped  upon  it,  and  she  could  not  step  back.  She  could  only 
go  forward  and  downward. 


540  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Dion  was  reckless.  Appeals  to  reason,  to  chivalry,  to  pity, 
had  no  effect  upon  him.  He  only  laughed  at  them,  took  them 
as  part  of  her  game  of  hypocrisy.  In  her  genuine  and  grow- 
ing fear  and  distress  she  had  become  almost  horribly  sincere, 
but  he  would  not  believe  in,  or  heed,  her  sincerity.  She  knew 
her  increasing  hatred  of  him  was  matched  by  his  secret  detes- 
tation of  her.  Yes,  he  detested  her  with  all  that  was  most 
characteristic  in  him,  with  all  those  inherent  qualities  of  which, 
do  what  he  would,  he  was  unable  to  rid  himself.  And  yet 
there  was  a  link  which  bound  them  together  —  the  link  of  a 
common  degradation  of  body.  She  longed  to  smash  that  link 
which  she  had  so  carefully  and  sedulously  labored  to  forge. 
But  he  wished  to  make  it  stronger.  By  her  violent  will  she 
had  turned  him  to  perversity,  and  now  he  was  actually  more 
perverse  than  she  was.  She  saw  herself  outdistanced  on  the 
course  towards  the  ultimate  blackness,  saw  herself  forced  to 
follow  where  he  led. 

She  dared  not  go  to  Buyukderer.  She  could  not,  she  knew, 
keep  him  away  from  there.  He  would  follow  her  from  Con- 
stantinople, would  resume  his  life  of  last  summer,  would  per- 
haps deliberately  accentuate  his  intimacy  with  her  instead  of 
being  careful  to  throw  over  it  a  veil.  In  his  hatred  and  reck- 
lessness he  might  be  capable  even  of  that,  the  last  outrage  which 
a  man  can  inflict  upon  a  woman,  to  whose  safety  and  happi- 
ness his  chivalrous  secrecy  is  essential.  His  clinging  to  her 
in  hatred  was  terrible  to  her.  She  began  to  think  that  perhaps 
he  had  in  his  mind  abominable  plans  for  the  destruction  of  her 
happiness. 

One  day  he  told  her  that  if  she  went  to  Buyukderer  he  would 
not  only  follow  her  there,  but  he  would  remain  there  when 
Jimmy  came  out  for  the  summer  holidays. 

"  Jimmy  must  learn  to  like  me  again,"  he  said.  "  That  is 
necessary." 

She  shuddered  when  she  realized  the  tendency  of  Dion's 
mind.  Fear  made  her  clairvoyante.  There  were  moments 
when  she  seemed  to  look  into  that  mind  as  into  a  room  through 
an  open  window,  to  see  the  thoughts  as  living  things  going  about 
their  business.  There  was  something  appalling  in  this  man's 
brooding  desire  to  strike  her  in  the  heart  combined  with  his  de- 
termination to  continue  to  be  her  lover.  It  affected  her  as 
she  had  never  been  affected  before.  By  torturing  her  imagina- 
tion it  made  havoc  of  her  will-power.  Her  situation  rendered 
her  almost  desperate,  and  she  could  not  find  an  outlet  from  it. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  541 

What  was  she  to  do?  If  she  went  to  Buyukderer  she  felt 
certain  there  would  be  a  scandal.  Even  if  there  were  not,  she 
could  not  now  dare  to  risk  having  Jimmy  out  for  his  holidays. 
Jimmy  and  Dion  must  not  meet  again.  She  might  travel  in 
the  summer,  as  Dion  had  suggested,  but  if  she  did  that  she 
would  be  forced  to  endure  a  solitude  a  deux  with  him  untem- 
pered  by  any  social  distractions.  She  could  not  endure  that 
To  be  alone  with  his  bitterness,  his  misery,  and  his  monopoliz- 
ing hatred  of  her  would  be  unbearable.  And  the  problem  of 
Jimmy's  holidays  would  not  be  solved  by  travel.  Unless  she 
traveled  to  England! 

A  gleam  of  hope  came  to  her  as  she  thought  of  England. 
Dion  had  fled  from  England.  \Yould  he  dare  to  go  back  there, 
to  the  land  which  had  seen  his  tragedy,  and  where  the  woman 
lived  who  had  cast  him  out?  Mrs.  Clarke  wondered,  turning 
the  thought  of  England  over  and  over  in  her  mind. 

The  longer  she  thought  on  that  matter  the  more  convinced 
she  became  that  she  had  hit  upon  a  final  test,  by  means  of  which 
it  would  be  possible  for  her  to  ascertain  Dion's  exact  mental  con- 
dition. If  he  was  ready  to  follow  her  even  to  England,  to  show 
himself  there  as  her  intimate  friend,  if  not  as  her  lover,  then 
the  man  whom  she  had  known  in  London  was  dead  indeed  be- 
yond hope  of  resurrection. 

She  resolved  to  find  out  what  Dion's  feeling  about  England 
was. 

Since  the  evening  when  she  had  told  him  the  truth  she  had 
seen  him  —  he  had  obliged  her  to  see  him  —  even'  day,  but  he 
had  not  come  again  to  her  flat.  They  had  met  in  secret,  as  they 
had  been  meeting  for  many  months.  For  the  days  when  they 
had  wandered  about  Stamboul  together,  when  she  had  tried  to 
play  to  him  the  part  Dumeny  had  once  played  to  her,  were  long 
ago  over. 

On  the  day  when  the  thought  of  England  occurred  to  Mrs. 
Clarke  as  a  possible  place  of  refuge  she  had  promised  to  meet 
Dion  late  in  the  evening  at  their  rooms  near  the  Persian  Khan. 
She  loathed  going  to  those  rooms.  They  reminded  her  pain- 
fully of  all  she  had  felt  for  Dion  and  felt  no  longer.  They 
spoke  to  her  of  the  secrecy  of  a  passion  that  was  dead.  She 
was  afraid  of  them.  But  she  was  still  more  afraid  of  seeing 
Dion  in  her  flat.  Nevertheless,  now  the  gleam  of  hope  which 
had  come  to  her  suddenly  woke  up  in  her  something  of  her 
old  recklessness.  Since  the  servants  had  gone  to  the  Villa 
Hafiz  she  had  been  living  in  the  flat  with  Sonia,  who  was  an 


542  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

excellent  cook  as  well  as  a  capital  maid.  She  resolved  to  ask 
Dion  to  dinner  that  night,  and  to  try  her  fortune  once  more  with 
him.  England  must  be  horrible  to  him.  Then  she  would  go 
to  England.  And  if  he  followed  her  there  he  would  at  least  be 
punished  for  his  persecution  of  her. 

Already  she  called  his  determination  not  to  break  their  in- 
trigue persecution.  She  had  a  short  memory. 

After  a  talk  with  Sonia  she  summoned  a  messenger  and  sent 
Dion  a  note,  asking  him  to  dinner  that  night.  He  replied  that 
he  would  come.  His  answer  ended  with  the  words:  "We  can 
go  to  the  rooms  later." 

As  Mrs.  Clarke  read  them  her  fingers  closed  on  the  paper 
viciously,  and  she  said  to  herself: 

"  I'll  not  go.     I'll  never  go  to  them  again." 

She  told  Sonia  about  the  dinner.  Then  she  dressed  and 
went  out. 

It  was  a  warm  and  languid  day.  She  took  a  carriage  and 

told  the  coachman  to  drive  to  Stamboul to  drive  on  till  she 

gave  him  the  direction  where  to  go  in  Stamboul.  She  had  no 
special  object  in  view.  But  she  longed  to  be  out  in  the  air,  to 
drive,  to  see  people  about  her,  the  waterway,  the  forest  of  ship- 
ping, the  domes  and  the  minarets,  the  cypresses,  the  glades 
stretching  towards  Seraglio  Point,  the  long,  low  hills  of  Asia. 
She  longed,  too,  to  hear  voices,  hurrying  feet,  the  innumerable 
sounds  of  life.  She  hoped  by  seeing  and  hearing  to  fortify 
her  will.  The  spirit  of  adventure  was  the  spirit  that  held  her, 
was  the  most  vital  thing  within  her,  and  such  a  spirit  needed 
freedom  to  breathe  in.  She  was  fettered.  She  had  been  a 
coward,  or  almost  a  coward,  false,  perhaps,  to  her  fortunate 
star.  Hitherto  she  had  always  followed  Nietzsche's  advice  and 
had  lived  perilously.  Was  she  now  to  be  governed  by  fear? 
Even  to  keep  Jimmy's  respect  and  affection  could  she  endure 
such  dominion?  As  the  sun  touched  her  with  his  fingers  of 
gold,  and  the  air,  full  of  a  strangely  languid  vitality,  whis- 
pered about  her,  as  she  heard  the  cries  from  the  sea,  and  saw 
human  beings,  vividly  egoistic,  going  by  on  their  pilgrimage,  she 
said  to  herself,  "Not  even  for  Jimmy!  "  The  clamorous  city, 
with  its  fierce  openness  and  its  sinister  suggestions  of  hidden 
things,  woke  up  in  her  the  huntress,  and,  for  the  moment,  lulled 
the  mother  to  sleep. 

"  Not  even  for  Jimmy !  "  she  thought.  "  I  must  be  myself. 
I  cannot  be  otherwise.  I  must  live  perilously.  To  live  in  any 
other  way  for  me  would  be  death." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  543 

And  the  line  in  "  The  Kasidah  "  which  Dion  had  pondered 
over  came  to  her,  and  she  thought  of  the  "  death  that  walks  in 
form  of  life." 

As  the  carriage  went  upon  the  bridge  she  looked  across  to 
Stamboul,  and  was  faced  by  the  Mosque  of  the  Valideh.  So 
familiar  to  her  was  the  sight  of  its  facade,  of  its  cupolas  and 
minarets,  that  she  seldom  now  even  thought  of  it  when  she 
crossed  the  bridge;  but  to-day,  perhaps  because  she  was  unusu- 
ally strung  up,  was  restive  and  almost  horribly  alert,  she  gazed 
at  it  and  was  intensely  conscious  of  it.  She  had  once  said  to 
Dion  that  Stamboul  was  the  City  of  the  Unknown  God,  and  now 
suddenly  she  felt  that  she  was  nearing  His  altars.  A  strange, 
perverse  desire  to  pray  came  to  her;  to  go  up  into  one  of  the 
mosques  of  this  mysterious  city  which  she  loved,  and  to  pray  for 
her  release  from  Dion  Leith. 

She  smiled  faintly  as  this  idea  came  into  her  mind.  The  Un- 
known God  had  surely  made  her  as  she  was,  had  made  her  a 
huntress.  Well,  then,  surely  she  had  the  right  to  pray  to  Him 
to  give  her  a  free  course  for  her  temperament. 

"  Santa  Sophia!  "  she  called  to  the  coachman. 

He  cracked  his  whip  and  drove  furiously  on  to  Stamboul.  In 
less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  pulled  up  his  horses  before 
the  vast  Church  of  Santa  Sophia. 

Mrs.  Clarke  sat  still  in  the  carriage  for  a  moment  looking 
up  at  the  ugly  towering  walls,  covered  with  red  and  white 
stripes.  Her  face  was  haggard  in  the  sunshine,  and  her  pale 
lips  were  set  together  in  a  hard  line.  A  beggar  with  twisted 
stumps  instead  of  arms  whined  a  petition  to  her,  but  she  neither 
saw  him  nor  heard  him.  As  she  stared  at  the  walls  on  which 
the  sun  blazed  she  was  wondering  about  her  future.  The  love 
of  life  was  desperately  strong  within  her  that  day.  The  long- 
ing for  new  experiences  tormented  her  physically.  She  felt  as 
if  she  could  not  wait,  could  not  be  patient  any  more.  If  Dion 
to-night  refused  again  to  give  her  her  freedom  she  must  do  some- 
thing desperate.  She  must  get  away  secretly  and  hide  herself 
from  him,  take  a  boat  to  Greece  or  Rumania,  or  slip  into  the 
Orient  express  and  vanish  over  the  tracks  of  Europe. 

But  first  she  must  go  into  the  church  and  pray  to  the  Un- 
known God. 

She  got  out  of  the  carriage.  The  beggar  thrust  one  of  his 
diseased  stumps  in  front  of  her  face.  She  turned  on  him  with 
a  malignant  look,  and  the  whining  petition  died  on  his  lips. 
Then  she  made  her  way  to  the  Porta  Basilica  and  passed  into 


544  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

the  church.  But  as  its  great  spaces  opened  out  before  her  a 
thought,  childishly  superstitious,  came  to  her,  and  she  turned 
abruptly,  went  out,  made  her  way  to  the  beggar  who  had  wor- 
ried her,  gave  him  a  coin  and  said  something  kind  to  him. 
His  almost  soprano  voice,  raised  in  clamorous  benediction,  fol- 
lowed her  as  she  returned  to  the  church,  moving  slowly  with 
horrible  loose  slippers  protecting  its  floor  from  her  Christian 
feet.  She  always  laughed  in  her  mind  when  she  wore  those 
slippers  and  thought  of  what  she  was.  This  sanctuary  of  the 
Unknown  God  must,  it  seemed,  be  protected  from  her  because 
she  was  a  Christian! 

There  were  a  good  many  people  in  the  church,  but  it  looked 
almost  empty  because  of  its  immense  size.  She  knew  it  very 
well,  better  perhaps  than  she  knew  any  other  sacred  building, 
and  she  cared  for  it  very  much.  She  was  fond  of  mosques, 
delighting  in  their  airy  simplicity,  in  thir  casual  holiness  which 
seemed  to  say  to  her,  "  Worship  in  me  if  you  will.  If  you  will 
not,  never  mind;  dream  in  me  with  open  eyes,  or,  if  you  pre- 
fer it,  go  to  sleep  in  a  corner  of  me.  When  you  wake  you  can 
mutter  a  prayer,  or  not,  just  as  you  please." 

Santa  Sophia  did  not,  perhaps,  say  that,  though  it  had  now 
for  long  years  been  in  use  as  a  mosque,  and  always  seemed  to 
Mrs.  Clarke  more  like  a  mosque  than  like  a  church.  It  was 
richly  adorned,  and  something  of  Christianity  still  lingered 
within  it.  In  it  there  seemed,  even  to  Mrs.  Clarke,  to  be  some- 
thing impelling  which  asked  of  each  one  who  entered  it  more 
than  mere  dreams,  more  than  those  long  meditations  which  are 
like  prayers  of  the  mind  separated  from  the  prayers  of  the 
heart  and  soul.  But  it  possessed  the  air  of  freedom  which  is 
characteristic  of  mosques,  did  not  seize  those  who  entered  it  in  a 
clutch  of  tenacious  sanctity;  but  seemed  to  let  them  alone,  and 
to  influence  them  by  just  being  wonderful,  beautiful,  unself- 
consciously sacred. 

At  first  Mrs.  Clarke  wandered  slowly  about  the  church,  with- 
out any  purpose  other  than  that  of  gathering  to  herself  some 
of  its  atmosphere.  During  the  last  few  days  she  had  been  feel- 
ing really  tormented.  Dion  had  once  said  she  looked  pun- 
ished. Now  he  had  made  her  feel  punished.  And  she  sought 
a  moment  of  peace.  It  could  not  come  to  her  from  mysticism, 
but  it  might  come  to  her  from  great  art,  which  suggests  to  its 
votaries  mystery,  the  something  beyond,  untroubled  and  shin- 
ingly  serene. 

Presently  Mrs.  Clarke  felt  the  peace  of  Santa  Sophia,  and 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  545 

she  felt  it  in  a  new  way,  because  she  had  recently  suffered,  in- 
deed was  suffering  still  in  a  new  way;  she  felt  it  as  something 
desirable,  which  might  be  of  value  to  her,  if  she  were  able  to 
take  it  to  herselt  and  to  fold  it  about  her  own  life.  Had  she 
made  a  mistake  in  living  perilously  through  many  years? 
Her  mind  went  to  the  woman  who  had  abandoned  Dion  and 
entered  a  Sisterhood  to  lead  a  religious  life.  She  seldom 
thought  about  Rosamund  except  in  relation  to  Dion.  She  had 
scarcely  known  her,  and  since  her  first  few  interviews  with  Dion 
in  this  land  of  the  cypress  he  had  seldom  mentioned  his  wife. 
She  neither  liked,  nor  actively  disliked,  Rosamund,  whose  tacit 
rejection  of  her  acquaintance  had  not  stirred  in  her  any 
womanly  hatred;  for  though  she  was  a  ruthless  woman  she  was 
not  venomous  towards  other  women.  She  did  not  bother  about 
them  enough  for  that.  But  now  she  considered  that  other 
woman  with  whom  she  had  shared  Dion  Leith,  or  rather  who, 
not  knowing  it  doubtless,  had  shared  Dion  Leith  with  her.  And 
she  wondered  whether  Rosamund,  in  her  Sisterhood,  was  hap- 
pier than  she  was  in  the  world.  In  the  Sisterhood  there  must 
surely  be  peace  —  monotony,  drudgery,  perhaps,  but  peace. 

Santa  Sophia,  with  its  vast  spaces,  its  airy  dome,  its  great 
arches  and  galleries,  its  walls  of  variegated  marble,  its  glitter- 
ing mosaics  and  columns  of  porphyry,  to-day  made  her  realize 
that  in  her  life  of  adventure  and  passion  she  was  driven,  as  if 
by  a  demon  with  a  whip,  and  that  her  horrible  situation  with 
Dion  was  but  the  culmination  of  a  series  of  horrible  situations. 
She  had  escaped  from  them  only  after  devastating  battles,  in 
which  she  had  had  to  use  all  her  nervous  energy  and  all  her 
force  of  will.  Was  it  worth  while?  Was  the  game  she  was 
always  playing  worth  the  candles  she  was  always  burning? 
Would  it  not  be  wiser  to  seek  peace  and  ensue  it?  As  she 
drove  to  Santa  Sophia  she  had  longed  fiercely  to  be  free  so  that 
she  might  begin  again;  might  again  have  adventures,  might 
again  explore  the  depths  of  human  personalities,  and  satisfy  her 
abnormal  curiosities  and  desires.  Now  she  was  full  of  unusual 
hesitation.  Suppose  she  did  succeed  in  getting  rid  of  Dion  by 

going  to  England,  suppose  her  prayer she  had  not  offered 

it  up  yet,  but  she  was  going  to  offer  it  up  in  a  moment  —  to 
the  Unknown  God  received  a  favorable  answer,  might  it  not  be 
well  for  her  future  happiness  if  she  retired  from  the  passionate 
life,  with  its  perpetual  secrecies,  and  intrigues,  and  lies,  and 
violent  efforts,  into  the  life  of  the  ideal  mother,  solely  devoted  to 
her  only  child  ? 


546  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

She  felt  that  the  struggle  with  Dion,  the  horrible  scenes  she  had 
had  with  him,  the  force  of  her  hatred  of  him  and  his  hatred 
of  her,  the  necessity  of  yielding  to  him  in  hatred  that  which 
should  never  be  given  save  with  desire,  had  tried  her  as  noth- 
ing else  had  ever  tried  her.  She  felt  that  her  vitality  was  low, 
and  she  supposed  that  out  of  that  lowered  vitality  had  come 
her  uncharacteristic  desire  for  peace.  She  had  almost  envied 
for  a  moment  the  woman  whom  she  had  replaced  in  the  life  of 
Dion.  Even  now  —  she  sighed ;  a  great  weariness  possessed 
her.  Was  she  going  to  be  subject  to  a  weakness  which  she  had 
always  despised,  the  weakness  of  regret? 

She  paused  beside  a  column  not  very  far  from  the  raised 
tribune  on  the  left  of  the  dome  which  is  set  apart  for  the  use 
of  the  Sultan,  and  is  called  the  Sultan's  seat.  Her  large  eyes 
stared  at  it,  but  at  first  she  did  not  see  it.  She  was  looking  in- 
ward upon  herself.  Then,  in  some  distant  part  of  the  mosque, 
a  boy's  voice  began  to  sing,  loudly,  almost  fiercely.  It  sounded 
fanatical  and  defiant,  but  tremendously  believing,  proud  in  the 
faith  which  it  proclaimed  to  faithful  and  unfaithful  alike.  It 
echoed  about  the  mosque,  raising  a  clamor  which  nobody  seemed 
to  heed;  for  the  few  ulemas  who  were  visible  continued  read- 
ing the  Koran  aloud  on  the  low  railed-in  platforms  which  they 
frequent;  a  Dervish  in  a  pointed  hat  slept  peacefully  on, 
stretched  out  in  a  corner;  before  the  prayer  carpet  of  the  Prophet, 
not  far  from  the  Mihrab,  a  half-naked  Bedouin,  with  a  sheep- 
skin slung  over  his  bronzed  shoulders,  preserved  his  wild  at- 
titude of  savage  adoration;  and  here  and  there,  in  the  distance, 
under  the  low  hanging  myriads  of  lamps,  the  figures  of  Turk- 
ish soldiers,  of  street  children,  of  travelers,  moved  noiselessly  to 
and  fro. 

The  voice  of  this  boy,  heedless  and  very  powerful,  indeed 
almost  impudent,  stirred  Mrs.  Clarke.  It  brought  her  back 
to  her  worship  of  force.  One  must  worship  something,  and  she 
chose  force  —  force  of  will,  of  temperament,  of  body,  of  brain. 
Now  she  saw  the  Sultan's  tribune,  and  it  made  her  think  of 
an  opera  box  and  of  the  worldly  life.  The  boy  sang  on,  catch- 
ing at  her  mind,  pulling  her  towards  the  East.  The  curious 
peace  of  any  religious  life  was  certainly  not  for  her,  yet  to-day 
she  felt  weary  of  the  life  in  her  world.  And  she  wished  she 
could  have  in  her  existence  peace  of  some  kind;  she  wished 
that  she  were  not  a  perpetual  wanderer.  She  remembered  some 
of  those  with  whom,  from  time  to  time,  she  had  linked  her- 
self—  her  husband,  Hadi  Bey,  Dumeny,  Brayfield,  Dion  Leith. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  547 

Now  she  was  struggling,  and  so  far  in  vain,  to  thrust  Dion 
out  of  her  life.  If  she  succeeded  —  what  then?  Where  was 
stability  in  her  existence?  Her  love  for  Jimmy  was  the  only 
thing  that  lasted,  and  that  often  made  her  afraid  now.  She  was 
seized  by  an  almost  sentimental  desire  to  lose  herself  in  a  love 
for  a  man  that  would  last  as  her  love  for  Jimmy  had  lasted,  to 
know  the  peace  of  an  enduring  and  satisfied  desire. 

The  voice  of  the  boy  died  away.  She  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  Mihrab  to  offer  up  her  prayer  to  the  Unknown  God,  as 
the  pious  Mussulman  turns  in  the  direction  of  the  Sacred  City 
when  he  puts  up  his  prayer  to  Allah. 

Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  Bedouin. 

As  she  looked  at  him,  this  man  of  the  desert  come  up  into 
the  City,  with  the  fires  of  the  dunes  in  his  veins,  the  vast  spaces 
mirrored  in  his  eyes,  the  passion  for  wandering  in  his  soul,  she 
felt  that  in  a  mysterious  and  remote  way  she  was  akin  to  him, 
despite  all  her  culture,  her  subtle  mentality,  the  difference  of  her 
life  from  his.  For  she  had  her  wildness  of  nature,  dominant 
and  unceasing,  as  he  had  his.  He  was  forever  traveling  in 
body  and  she  in  mind.  He  sought  fresh,  and  ever  fresh,  camp- 
ing-places, and  so  did  she.  The  black  ashes  of  burnt-out  fires 
marked  his  progress  and  hers.  She  looked  at  him  as  she  ut- 
tered her  prayer  to  the  Unknown  God. 

And  she  prayed  for  a  master,  that  she  might  meet  a  man  who 
would  be  able  to  dominate  her,  to  hold  her  fast  in  the  grip 
of  his  nature.  At  this  moment  Dion  dominated  her  in  an  ugly 
way,  and  she  knew  it  too  well.  But  she  needed  some  one 
whom  she  would  willingly  obey,  whom  she  would  lust  to  obey, 
because  of  love.  The  restlessness  in  her  life  had  been  caused  by 
a  lack;  she  had  never  yet  found  the  man  who  could  be  not  her 
tyrant  for  a  time,  but  her  master  while  she  lived.  Now  she 
prayed  for  that,  the  only  peace  that  she  really  wanted. 

While  she  prayed  she  was  conscious  always  of  the  attitude 
of  the  Bedouin,  which  suggested  the  fierce  yielding  of  one  who 
could  never  be  afraid  of  the  God  he  worshiped.  Nor  could  she 
be  afraid.  For  she  was  not  ashamed  of  what  she  was,  though 
she  hid  what  she  was  from  motives  of  worldly  prudence  and 
for  the  sake  of  her  motherhood.  She  believed  that  she  was 
born  into  the  world  not  in  order  to  be  severely  educated,  but  in 
order  that  she  might  live  to  the  uttermost,  according  to  the  dic- 
tates of  her  temperament.  Now  at  last  she  knew  what  that  tem- 
perament needed,  what  it  had  been  seeking,  why  it  had  never 
been  able  to  cease  from  its  journeying.  Santa  Sophia  had  told  her. 


548  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Her  knowledge  roused  in  her  a  sort  of  fury  of  longing  for 
release  from  Dion  Leith.  She  saw  the  Bedouin  riding  across 
the  sands  in  the  freedom  he  had  captured,  and  she  ached  to  be 
free  that  she  might  seek  her  master.  Somewhere  there  must 
be  the  one  man  who  had  the  power  to  fasten  the  yoke  on  her 
neck. 

"  Let  me  find  him !  "  she  prayed,  almost  angrily,  and  using 
her  will. 

She  had  forgotten  Jimmy.  Her  whole  nature  was  concen- 
trated in  the  desire  for  immediate  release  from  Dion  Leith  in 
order  that  she  might  be  free  to  pursue  consciously  the  search 
which  till  this  moment  she  had  pursued  unconsciously. 

The  Bedouin  did  not  move.  His  black,  bird-like  eyes  vrere 
wide  open,  but  he  seemed  plunged  in  a  dream  as  he  gazed  at 
the  Sacred  Carpet.  He  was  absolutely  unaware  of  his  sur- 
roundings and  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  consideration  of  him.  There 
was  something  animal  and  something  royal  in  his  appearance 
and  his  supreme  unconsciousness  of  others.  He  looked  as  if 
he  were  a  law  unto  himself,  even  while  he  was  adoring.  How 
different  he  was  from  Dion  Leith. 

She  shut  her  eyes  as  she  prayed  that  Dion  might  be  removed 
from  her  life,  somehow,  anyhow,  by  death  if  need  be.  In  the 
dark  she  created  for  herself  she  saw  the  minarets  pointing  to 
the  sky  as  she  and  Dion  had  seen  them  together  from  the  hill 
of  Eyub  as  they  sat  under  the  giant  cypress.  Then  she  had 
wanted  Dion;  now  she  prayed: 

"  Take  him  away!  Let  me  be  free  from  him!  Let  me  never 
see  him  again!  " 

And  she  felt  as  if  the  Unknown  God  were  listening  to  her 
somewhere  far  off,  knew  all  that  was  in  her  mind. 

A  stealthy  movement  quite  near  to  her  made  her  open  her 
eyes.  The  Bedouin  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  approaching 
her,  moving  with  a  little  step  over  the  matting  on  his  way  out 
of  the  church.  As  he  passed  Mrs.  Clarke  he  enveloped  her  for 
a  moment  in  an  indifferent  glance  of  fire.  He  burnt  her  with 
his  animal  disdain  of  her  observation  of  him,  a  disdain  which 
seemed  to  her  impregnated  with  flame.  She  felt  the  sands  as 
he  passed.  When  he  was  gone  a  sensation  of  loneliness,  even  of 
desolation,  oppressed  her. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment;  then  she  turned  and  followed 
him  slowly.  He  went  before  her,  wrapped  in  his  supreme  in- 
difference, through  the  Porta  Basilica,  and  came  out  into  the 
blaze  of  the  sunshine.  As  she  emerged,  she  saw  him  standing 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  549 

quite  still.  He  seemed  —  she  was  just  behind  him  —  to  be 
staring  at  a  very  fair  woman  who,  accompanied  by  a  guide,  was 
coming  towards  the  church.  Mrs.  Clarke,  intent  on  the  Bedouin, 
was  aware  of  this  woman's  approach,  but  felt  no  sort  of  inter- 
est in  her  until  she  was  quite  close;  then  something,  some  dag- 
ger-thrust of  the  mind,  coming  from  the  woman,  pierced  Mrs. 
Clarke's  indifference. 

She  looked  up  and  met  the  sad,  pure  eyes  of  Rosamund 
Leith. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  perfectly  still  gazing  into  those  eyes. 

Rosamund  had  stopped,  but  she  made  no  gesture  of  recog- 
nition and  did  not  open  her  lips.  She  only  looked  at  Mrs. 
Clarke,  and  as  she  looked  a  deep  flush  slowly  spread  over  her 
face  and  down  to  her  throat. 

The  Greek  guide  said  something  to  her;  she  moved,  lowered 
her  eyes  and  went  on  into  the  church  without  looking  back. 

The  Bedouin  strode  slowly  away  into  the  blaze  of  the  sun- 
shine. 

Mrs.  Clarke  remained  where  she  was,  motionless.  For  the 
first  time  perhaps  in  her  life  she  was  utterly  amazed  by  an 
event.  Rosamund  Leith  here  in  Constantinople!  What  did 
that  mean? 

Mrs.  Clarke  knew  the  arrival  of  Rosamund  meant  some- 
thing that  might  be  tremendously  important  to  herself.  As  she 
stood  there  before  the  church  she  was  groping  to  find  this  some- 
thing; but  her  mental  faculties  seemed  to  be  paralyzed,  and 
she  could  not  find  it.  Rosamund  Leith's  eyes  had  told  Mrs. 
Clarke  something,  that  Rosamund  knew  of  Dion's  unfaithful- 
ness and  who  the  woman  was.  What  did  the  fact  of  Rosa- 
mund's coming  to  Constantinople  in  possession  of  that  knowl- 
edge mean? 

From  the  minaret  above  her  head  the  muezzin  in  a  pierc- 
ing and  nasal  voice  began  the  call  to  prayer.  His  cry  seemed 
to  tear  its  way  through  Mrs.  Clarke's  mental  inertia.  Abruptly 
she  was  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties.  That  Eastern  man 
up  there,  nearer  to  the  blue  than  she  was,  cried,  "  Come  to 
prayer!  "  But  she  had  already  uttered  her  prayer,  and  surely 
Rosamund  Leith  was  the  answer. 

As  she  drove  away  towards  the  Golden  Horn  she  passed  the 
Bedouin  striding  along  in  the  sun. 

She  looked  at  him,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  her;  the  indiffer- 
ence of  the  desert  was  about  him. 


550  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.  CLARKE  was  in  her  bedroom  with  the  door  open 
that  evening  when  she  heard  a  bell  sound  in  the  flat. 
She  had  fixed  eight  for  the  dinner  hour.  It  was  now 
only  half-past  six.  Nevertheless  she  felt  sure  that  it  was  Dion 
who  had  just  rung.  She  went  swiftly  across  the  room  and 
shut  the  bedroom  door.  Two  or  three  minutes  later  Sonia 
came  in. 

"  Mr.  Leith  has  come  already,  Madame,"  she  said,  looking 
straight  at  her  mistress. 

"  I  expected  him  early,  Sonia.  You  can  tell  him  I  will  come 
almost  directly." 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  Sonia,  wait  a  minute!     How  am  I  looking  this  evening?  " 

"  How  ?  "  said  Sonia,  with  rather  heavy  emphasis. 

"  Yes.  I  feel  —  feel  as  if  I  were  looking  unlike  my  usual 
self." 

Sonia  stared  hard  at  Mrs.  Clarke.     Then  she  said : 

'  So  you  are,  Madame." 

'  In  what  way  ?  " 

'  You  look  almost  excited  and  younger  than  usual." 

'  Younger!  " 

'  Yes,  as  if  you  were  expecting  something,  almost  as  a  girl 
expects.  I  never  saw  you  just  like  this  before." 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  at  herself  in  a  mirror  earnestly,  and  for 
a  long  time. 

"  That's  all,  Sonia,"  she  said,  turning  round.  "  You  can  tell 
Mr.  Leith." 

Sonia  went  out. 

Mrs.  Clarke  followed  her  ten  minutes  later.  When  she  came 
into  the  little  hall  she  saw  lying  on  a  table  beside  Dion's  hat 
several  letters.  She  stopped  by  the  table  and  looked  down  at 
them.  They  lay  there  in  a  pile  held  together  by  an  elastic 
band,  and  she  could  only  see  the  writing  on  the  envelope  which 
was  at  the  top.  It  was  addressed  to  Dion  and  had  been  through 
the  post.  She  wondered  whether  among  those  letters  there  was 
one  from  Rosamund.  Had  she  written  to  the  husband  whom 
she  had  cast  out  to  tell  him  of  the  great  change  which  had  led 
her  to  give  up  the  religious  life,  to  come  out  to  the  land  of  the 
cypress  ? 

Mrs.  Clarke  glanced  round;  then  she  bent  down  noiselessly, 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  551 

picked  up  the  packet,  slipped  off  the  elastic  band  and  exam- 
ined the  letters  one  by  one.  She  had  never  chanced  to  see  Rosa- 
mund's handwriting,  but  she  felt  sure  she  would  know  at  once 
if  she  held  in  her  hand  the  letter  which  might  mean  her  own 
release.  She  did  not  find  it;  but  on  two  envelopes  she  saw 
Beatrice's  delicate  handwriting,  which  she  knew  very  well.  She 
longed  to  know  what  Beatrice  had  written.  With  a  sigh  she 
slipped  the  elastic  band  back  into  its  place,  put  the  packet  down 
and  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

Directly  she  saw  Dion  she  was  certain  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  change  in  Rosamund's  life.  There  was  no  excitement  in 
his  thin  and  wrinkled  brown  face;  no  expectation  lit  up  his 
sunken  eyes  making  them  youthful.  He  looked  hard,  wretched 
and  strangely  old,  but  ruthless  and  forceful  in  a  kind  of  shat- 
tered and  ravaged  way.  She  thought  of  a  ruined  house  with  a 
cold  strong  light  in  the  window.  He  was  sitting  when  she  came 
in,  leaning  forward,  with  his  hands  hanging  down  between  his 
knees.  When  he  saw  her  he  got  up  slowly. 

"  I  was  near  here  and  had  nothing  to  do,  so  I  came  early,"  he 
said,  not  apologetically,  but  carelessly. 

He  looked  at  her  and  added: 

"  What's  happened  to  you  to-day?  " 

"  Nothing.     What  an  extraordinary  question !  " 

"  Is  it  ?     You  look  different.     There's  a  change." 

A  suspicious  expression  made  his  face  ugly. 

"  Have  you  met  any  one?  " 

"  Of  course.  How  can  one  go  out  in  Constantinople  without 
meeting  people?  " 

"  Any  one  new,  I  meant." 

"  No." 

"  You  look  just  as  if  you  had." 

"Do  I?"  she  said,  with  indifference. 

"  Yes.     You  look  —  I  don't  know " 

He  paused. 

"  I  think  it's  younger,"  he  added.  "  You  never  are  tired  or 
ill,  but  you  generally  look  both.  To-day  you  don't." 

"  Please  don't  blame  me  for  looking  moderately  well  for  once 
in  my  life." 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me  to  dinner  here?  " 

The  sound  of  his  voice  was  as  suspicious  as  the  expression 
on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Once  in  a  way  it  doesn't  matter.  And 
all  the  servants  have  gone  away  to  Buyukderer." 


552  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Then  you  are  going  there?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  if  I  shall  be  able  to  stay  there  for  more  than 
a  few  days  if  I  do  go." 

"  Why  not?  "  he  said  sharply. 

"  It's  just  possible  I  may  have  to  go  over  to  England  on  busi- 
ness. Something's  gone  wrong  with  my  money  matters,  not  the 
money  my  husband  allows  me,  but  my  own  money.  I  had  a 
letter  from  my  lawyer." 

"When?" 

"  To-day." 

He  stood  before  her  in  silence. 

"  By  the  way,"  she  added,  "  I  saw  all  those  letters  for  you 
on  the  hall  table.  Why  don't  you  read  them?  " 

"  Going  to  England,  are  you  ?  "  he  said,  frowning. 

"  I  may  have  to." 

"  Surely  you  must  know  from  your  lawyer's  letter  whether  it 
will  be  necessary  or  not." 

"  I  expect  it  will  be  necessary." 

He  turned  slowly  away  from  her  and  went  to  the  window, 
where  he  stood  for  a  moment,  apparently  looking  out.  She  sat 
down  on  the  sofa  and  glanced  at  the  clock.  How  were  they 
to  get  through  a  long  evening  together?  She  wished  she  could 
bring  about  a  crisis  in  their  relations  abruptly.  Dion  turned 
round.  He  had  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  I  wish  you'd  let  me  look  at  that  lawyer's  letter,"  he  said. 

"  It  wouldn't  interest  you." 

"  If  it's  about  money  matters  I  might  be  able  to  help  you. 
You  know  they  used  to  be  my  job.  Even  now  anything  to  do 
with  investments " 

"  Oh,  I  won't  bother  you,"  she  said  coolly.  "  I  always  do 
business  through  some  one  I  can  pay." 

"  Well,  you  can  pay  me." 

"  No,  I  can't." 

"  But  I  say  you  can." 

"How?"  she  said. 

And  instantly  she  regretted  having  asked  the  question. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  minute,  then  he  said: 

"  By  sticking  always  to  me,  by  proving  yourself  loyal." 

Her  mouth  twitched.  The  intense  irony  in  the  last  word 
made  her  feel  inclined  to  laugh  hysterically. 

"  But  you  don't  always  behave  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  me 
feel  loyal,"  she  said,  controlling  herself. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  553 

"  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  more  clever  with  you  in  the  future." 

She  got  up  abruptly. 

"  I  didn't  expect  you  quite  so  early,  and  I've  got  a  letter  to 
write  to  Jimmy " 

"  And  a  letter  to  your  lawyer!  "  he  interrupted. 

"  No,  that  can  wait  till  to-morrow.  I  must  think  things  over. 
But  I  must  write  to  Jimmy  now." 

"  Give  him  a  kind  message  from  me." 

"  What  will  you  do  while  I  am  writing?  " 

"  I'll  sit  here." 

"  But  do  something!     Why  not  read  your  letters?  " 

"  Yes,  I  may  as  well  look  at  them.  There  was  quite  a  col- 
lection waiting  for  me  at  the  British  Post  Office.  I  haven't  been 
there  for  months." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  more  regularly?  " 

"  Because  I've  done  with  the  past!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  sud- 
den savagery.  "  And  letters  from  home  only  rake  it  up." 

She  looked  at  him  narrowly. 

"  But  have  we  ever  done  with  the  past?  "  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  upon  him.  "  If  we  think  so  isn't  that  a  stupidity  on  our 
part?" 

"  You're  talking  like  a  parson !  " 

"  Even  a  parson  may  hit  upon  a  truth  now  and  then." 

"  It  depends  upon  oneself.     I  say  I  have  done  with  the  past." 

"  And  yet  you're  afraid  to  read  letters  from  England." 

"  I'm  not." 

"  And  you  never  go  to  England." 

"  There's  nothing  to  prevent  me  from  going  to  England." 

"  Except  your  own  feelings  about  things." 

"  One  gets  over  feelings  with  the  help  of  Time.  I'm  not  such 
a  sensitive  fool  as  I  used  to  be.  Life  has  knocked  all  that  sort 
of  rot  out  of  me." 

She  sat  down  at  the  writing-table  from  which  Jimmy's  photo- 
graph had  vanished. 

"  Read  your  letters,  or  read  a  book,"  she  said. 

And  she  picked  up  a  pen. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  again,  and  she  tried  hard  to  detach 
her  mind  from  him.  She  took  a  sheet  of  writing-paper,  and 
began  to  write  to  Jimmy,  but  she  was  painfully  aware  of  Dion's 
presence  in  the  room,  of  every  slightest  movement  that  he  made. 
She  heard  him  sit  down  and  move  something  on  a  table,  then 
sigh;  complete  silence  followed.  She  felt  as  if  her  whole  body 


554  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

were  flushing  with  irritation.  Why  didn't  he  get  his  letters? 
She  was  positive  Beatrice  had  written  to  tell  him  that  Rosamund 
had  left  the  Sisterhood,  and  she  was  longing  to  know  what 
effect  that  news  would  have  upon  him. 

Presently  he  moved  ag.  in  and  got  up,  and  she  heard  him  go 
over  to  the  window.  She  strove,  with  a  bitter  effort,  to  con- 
centrate her  thoughts  on  Jimmy,  but  now  the  Bedouin  came 
between  her  and  the  paper;  she  saw  him  striding  indifferently 
through  the  blaze  of  sunshine. 

"  About  the  summer  holidays  this  year  —  I  am  not  quite 
sure  yet  what  my  plans  will  be "  she  wrote  slowly. 

Dion  was  moving  again.  He  came  away  from  the  window, 
crossed  the  room  behind  her,  and  opened  the  door.  He  was 
going  to  fetch  his  letters.  She  wrote  hurriedly  on.  He  went 
out  into  the  little  hall  and  returned. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  look  at  my  letters,"  he  said,  behind 
her. 

She  glanced  round. 

"  What  did  you  say?     Oh  —  your  letters." 

"  They  look  pretty  old,"  he  said,  turning  them  over. 

She  saw  Beatrice's  handwriting. 

"  Here's  one  from  Beatrice  Daventry,"  he  added,  in  a  hard 
voice. 

"  Does  she  often  write  to  you?  " 

"  She  hasn't  written  for  a  long  time." 

He  thrust  a  finger  under  the  envelope.  Mrs.  Clarke  turned 
and  again  bent  over  her  letter  to  Jimmy. 


"  Dinner  is  ready,  Madame!  " 

Mrs.  Clarke  looked  up  from  the  writing-table  at  Sonia  stand- 
ing squarely  in  the  doorway,  then  at  the  clock. 

"Dinner!     But  it's  only  a  quarter-past  seven." 

"  I  thought  you  ordered  it  for  a  quarter-past  seven,  Madame," 
replied  Sonia,  with  quiet  firmness. 

"Oh,  did  I?     I'd  forgotten." 

She  pushed  away  the  writing-paper  and  got  up. 

"  D'you  mind  dining  so  early?  "  she  asked  Dion,  looking  at 
him  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  read  his  letters. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  which  had  no  color  at  all.  His 
face  was  set  like  a  mask. 

"  Do  you  want  to  wash  your  hands?  If  so,  Sonia  will  bring 
you  some  hot  water  to  the  spare  room." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  555 

"  Thanks,  I'll  go;  but  I  prefer  cold  water." 

He  went  out  of  the  room  carrying  the  opened  letters  with 
him.  After  a  moment  Sonia  came  back. 

"  I  hope  I  didn't  do  wrong  about  dinner,  Madame,"  she  said. 
"  I  thought  as  Monsieur  Leith  came  so  early  Madame  would 
wish  dinner  earlier." 

Mrs.  Clarke  put  her  hand  on  her  servant's  substantial  arm. 

"  You  always  understand  things,  Sonia,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
tired.  I  mean  to  go  to  bed  very  early  to-night." 

"But  will  he " 

She  raised  her  heavy  eyebrows. 

"  I  must  rest  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke.  "  I  must,  I 
must." 

"  Let  me  tell  him,  then,  if  he " 

"  No,  no." 

Mrs.  Clarke  put  one  hand  to  her  lips.  She  heard  Dion  in 
the  hall.  When  he  came  in  she  saw  at  once  that  he  had  been 
dashing  cold  water  on  his  face.  His  eyes  fell  before  hers.  She 
could  not  divine  what  he  had  found  in  his  letters  or  what  was 
passing  in  his  mind. 

"  Come  to  dinner,"  she  said. 

And  they  went  at  once  to  the  dining-room. 

During  the  meal  they  talked  because  Mrs.  Clarke  exerted 
herself.  She  was  helped,  perhaps,  by  her  concealed  excite- 
ment. She  had  never  before  felt  so  excited,  so  almost  fever- 
ishly alert  in  body  and  mind  as  she  felt  that  night,  except  at 
the  climax  of  her  divorce  case.  And  she  was  waiting  now  for 
condemnation  or  acquittal  as  she  had  waited  then.  It  was 
horrible.  She  was  painfully  conscious  of  a  desperate  strength 
in  Dion.  It  was  as  if  he  had  grown  abruptly,  and  she  had  as 
abruptly  diminished.  His  savage  assertion  about  the  past  had 
impressed  her  disagreeably.  It  might  be  true.  He  might  really 
have  succeeded  in  slaying  his  love  for  his  wife.  If  so,  what 
chance  had  the  woman  who  had  taken  him  of  regaining  her 
freedom  of  action?  She  was  afraid  to  play  her  last  card. 

\Yhen  dinner  was  over  Dion  said : 

"  Shall  we  be  off?  " 

She  did  not  ask  where  they  were  going;  she  had  no  need  to 
ask.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  said: 

"  Not  just  yet.  Come  into  the  drawing-room.  You  can 
smoke,  and  if  you  like  I'll  play  you  something." 

"  All  right." 

They  went  into  the  drawing-room.     It  was  dimly  lighted. 


556  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Blinds  and  curtains  were  drawn.  Dion  sank  down  heavily  in 
a  chair. 

"The  cigarettes  are  there!  " 

"  Yes,  I  see.     Thanks." 

A  strange  preoccupation  seemed  to  be  descending  upon  him 
and  to  be  covering  him  up.  Sonia  came  in  with  coffee.  Dion 
put  his  cup,  full,  down  beside  him  on  a  table.  He  did  not 
sip  the  coffee,  nor  did  he  light  a  cigarette.  While  Mrs.  Clarke 
was  drinking  her  coffee  he  sat  without  uttering  a  word. 

She  went  to  the  piano.  She  played  really  well.  Otherwise 
she  would  not  have  played  to  him,  or  to  any  one.  She  was 
specially  at  home  in  the  music  of  Chopin,  and  had  studied 
minutely  many  of  the  "  Etudes."  Now  she  began  to  play  the 
Etude  in  E  flat.  As  she  played  she  felt  that  the  intense  nervous 
irritation  which  had  possessed  her  was  diminishing  slightly, 
was  becoming  more  bearable.  She  played  several  of  the  Etudes, 
and  presently  began  the  one  in  Thirds  and  Sixths  which  she  had 
once  found  abominably  difficult.  She  remembered  what  a  strug- 
gle she  had  had  with  it  before  she  had  conquered  it.  She  had 
been  quite  a  girl  then,  but  already  she  had  been  a  worshipper 
of  will-power,  and  had  resolved  to  cultivate  and  to  increase  her 
own  will.  And  she  had  used  this  Etude  as  a  means  of  testing 
herself.  Over  and  over  again,  when  she  had  almost  despaired 
of  ever  overcoming  its  difficulties,  she  had  said  to  herself, 
"Vouloir  c'est  pouvoir;  "  and  at  last  she  had  succeeded  in  play- 
ing the  excessively  difficult  music  as  if  it  were  quite  easy  to  her. 
That  had  been  the  first  stepping  upwards  towards  power. 

She  remembered  that  now  and  she  set  her  teeth.  "  Vouloir 
c'est  pouvoir."  She  had  proved  the  saying  true  again  and 
again;  she  must  prove  it  true  to-night.  She  willed  her  re- 
lease; she  would  somehow  obtain  it. 

Directly  she  had  finished  the  Etude  she  got  up  from  the 
piano. 

"  You  play  that  wonderfully  well,"  Dion  said,  with  a  sort 
of  hard  recognition  of  her  merit,  but  with  no  enthusiasm. 
"  Do  you  know  that  there's  something  damnably  competent  in 
you?" 

She  stood  looking  down  on  him. 

"  I'm  very  glad  there  is.  I  don't  care  to  bungle  what  I  under- 
take." 

"  I  believe  I  knew  that  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  standing 
by  Echo.  You  held  my  hand  that  day.  Do  you  remember  ?  " 

He  laughed  faintly. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  557 

"  No;  I  don't  remember." 

"  The  hand  of  Stamboul  was  upon  me  then.  By  God,  we 
are  under  the  yoke.  It  was  fated  then  that  you  should  de- 
stroy me." 

"Destroy  you?" 

"  Yes.  What's  the  good  of  lies  between  us?  You've  de- 
stroyed me.  That's  why  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me.  Your 
instinct  tells  you  the  work  is  done,  and  you're  right.  But  you 
must  stick  to  the  wreckage.  After  all,  it's  your  wreckage." 

"  No.  A  man  can  only  destroy  himself,"  she  said,  with 
cold  defiance. 

"Don't  let's  argue  about  it.     The  thing's  done  —  done!  " 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  sound  of  almost  wild  despair,  but 
his  face  preserved  its  hard,  mask-like  look. 

"  And  there's  no  returning  from  destruction,"  he  added. 
"  Those  who  try  to  fancy  there  is  are  just  fools." 

He  looked  up  at  her  as  she  stood  before  him,  and  seemed 
suddenly  struck  by  the  expression  on  her  face. 

"Who's  to  be  the  one  to  destroy  you?"  he  said.  "  D'you 
think  the  Unknown  God  has  singled  me  out  for  the  job?  Or 
do  you  really  expect  to  escape  scot-free  after  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross  over  so  many  lost  souls?  " 

"The  sign  of  the  cross?" 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  remember  when  I  told  you  of  Brayfield's 
death?  You've  never  given  him  a  thought  since,  I  suppose. 
But  I'll  make  you  keep  on  thinking  about  me." 

"What  has  happened  to-night?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Happened?" 

"  To  make  you  talk  like  this?  " 

"  Nothing  has  happened." 

"  That's  not  true.  Since  you  came  into  the  house  you've 
quite  changed." 

"  Merely  because  I've  been  reckoning  things  up,  taking  stock 
of  the  amount  of  damage  that's  been  done.  It'll  have  to  be 
paid  for,  I  suppose.  Everything's  paid  for  in  the  end,  isn't 
it  ?  When  are  you  going  to  England  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  absolutely  decided." 

"  No;  but  it  is.  I  want  to  know  the  date,  so  that  I  may 
pack  up  to  accompany  you.  It  will  be  jolly  to  see  Jimmy  again. 
I  shall  run  down  to  Eton  and  take  him  out." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  allow  you  to  do  me  any  harm.  Because 
lately  I've  given  in  to  you  sometimes,  you  mustn't  think  you  can 
make  a  slave  of  me." 


558  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  And  you  mustn't  think  you'll  get  rid  of  me  in  one  way 
if  you  can't  in  another.  This  English  project  is  nothing  but 
an  attempt  to  give  me  the  slip.  You  thought  I  couldn't  face 
England,  so  you  chose  England  as  the  place  you  would  travel 
to.  You've  never  had  a  letter  from  your  lawyer,  and  there's 
no  reason  why  you  should  go  to  England  on  business.  But  I 
can  face  England.  I've  never  done  anything  there  that  I'm 
ashamed  of.  My  record  there  is  a  clean  one." 

Suddenly  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  jacket  and  pulled  out 
the  letters  he  had  brought  from  the  British  Post  Office. 

"  And  apart  from  that,  you  made  a  mistake  in  reckoning  on 
my  sensitiveness." 

"  Honestly,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  she  said, 
with  frigid  calm. 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  thought  I  wouldn't  follow  you  to  Eng- 
land because  I  should  shrink  from  facing  my  mother,  perhaps, 
and  my  wife's  relatives,  and  all  the  people  who  know  what 
I've  done.  I  don't  shrink  from  meeting  any  one,  and  I'll  prove 
it  to  you." 

He  pulled  a  letter  out  of  its  envelope. 

"  This  is  from  Beatrice  Daventry.  In  it  she  tells  me  a 
piece  of  news."  (He  glanced  quickly  over  the  sheets.)  "My 
wife  has  got  tired  of  leading  a  religious  life  and  has  left  the 
Sisterhood  in  which  she  was,  and  gone  to  live  in  London. 
Here  it  is:  '  Rosamund  is  living  once  more  in  Great  Cumber- 
land Place  with  my  guardian.  She  never  goes  into  society,  but 
otherwise  she  is  leading  an  ordinary  life.  I  am  quite  sure 
she  will  never  go  back  to  Liverpool.' —  So,  if  I  go  to  London  I 
may  run  across  my  wife  any  day.  Why  not?  " 

"Your  wife  has  left  the  Sisterhood!"  said  Mrs.  Clarke 
slowly,  forcing  a  sound  of  surprise  into  her  husky  voice. 

"  I've  just  told  you  so.  You  and  I  may  meet  her  in  London. 
If  we  do,  I  should  think  she'll  be  hard  put  to  it  to  recognize 
me.  Now  put  on  your  things  and  we'll  be  off." 

"  I  shall  not  go  out  to-night.     I  intend " 

She  paused. 

"What  do  you  intend?" 

"  I  don't  mean  ever  to  go  to  those  rooms  again." 

"  Indeed.     Why  not?  "  he  asked,  with  cold  irony. 

"  I  loathe  them." 

"  You  found  them.  You  chose  the  furniture  for  them. 
Your  perfect  taste  made  them  what  they  are." 

"  I  tell  you  I  loathe  them!  "  she  repeated  violently. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  559 

"  We'll  change  them,  then.  We  can  easily  find  some  others 
that  will  do  just  as  well." 

"  Don't  you  understand  that  I  loathe  them  because  I  meet  you 
in  them?"' 

"  I  understood  that  a  good  while  ago." 

"  And  yet  you " 

"My  dear!"  he  interrupted  her.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  you 
had  destroyed  me  ?  The  man  I  was  might  have  bothered  about 
trifles  of  that  kind,  the  man  I  am  simply  doesn't  recognize 
them.  Jimmy  hates  me  too,  but  I  haven't  done  with  Jimmy 
yet,  nevertheless." 

"  You  shall  never  meet  Jimmy  again.     I  shall  prevent  it." 

"  How  can  you?  " 

"  You're  not  fit  to  be  with  him." 

"  But  you  have  molded  me  into  what  I  am.  He  must  get 
accustomed  to  his  own  mother's  handiwork." 

"  Jimmy  can't  bear  you.  He  told  me  so  when  he  was  last 
here.  He  detests  you." 

"  Ah!  "  said  Dion,  with  sudden  savagery,  springing  up  from 
his  chair.  "  So  you  and  he  have  talked  me  over !  I  was  sure 
of  it.  And  no  doubt  you  told  Jimmy  he  was  right  in  hating 
me." 

"  I  never  discussed  the  matter  with  him  at  all.  I  couldn't 
prevent  his  telling  me  what  he  felt  about  you." 

Dion  had  become  very  pale.  He  stood  for  a  moment  with- 
out speaking,  clenching  his  hands  and  looking  at  her  with 
blazing  eyes.  For  a  moment  she  thought  that  perhaps  he  was 
going  to  strike  her.  He  seemed  to  be  struggling  desperately 
with  himself,  to  be  striving  to  conquer  something  within  him. 
At  last  he  turned  away  from  her.  She  heard  him  twice  mut- 
ter the  name  of  her  boy,  "Jimmy!  Jimmy!  "  Then  he  went 
away  from  her  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  where  the  piano  was, 
and  stood  by  it.  She  saw  his  broad  shoulders  heaving.  He 
held  on  to  the  edge  of  the  piano  with  both  hands,  leaning  for- 
ward. She  stayed  where  she  was,  staring  at  him.  She  realized 
that  to-night  he  might  be  dangerous  to  her.  She  had  set  out  to 
defy  him.  But  she  was  not  sure  now  whether,  perhaps,  gentle- 
ness and  an  air  of  great  sincerity  might  not  be  the  only  effective 
weapons  against  him  in  his  present  abnormal  condition.  Pos- 
sibly even  now  it  was  not  too  late  to  use  them.  She  crossed  the 
room  and  came  to  him  swiftly. 

"  Dion !  "  she  said. 

He  did  not  move. 


560  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"Dion!"  she  repeated,  putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

He  turned  round.  His  pale  face  was  distorted.  She  scarcely 
recognized  him. 

"  Dion,  let  us  look  things  in  the  face." 

"  Oh,  God  — that  is  what  I'm  doing,"  he  said. 

His  lips  twisted,  his  face  was  convulsed.  She  looked  at 
him  in  silence,  wondering  what  was  going  to  happen.  For  a 
moment  she  was  almost  physically  afraid.  Something  in  him 
to-night  struck  hard  upon  her  imagination  and  she  felt  as  if 
it  were  trembling. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  he  said,  at  last. 

And  she  saw  that  for  the  moment  he  had  succeeded  in  re- 
gaining self-control. 

"  Very  well." 

She  went  to  sit  down;  he  sat  opposite  her. 

"  You  hate  me,  don't  you?  "  he  said. 

She  hesitated. 

"Don't  you?"  he  repeated. 

"  We  needn't  use  ugly  words,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  For  ugly  things  ?  I  believe  it's  best.  You  hate  me  and 
I  hate  you.  D'you  know  why  I  hate  you?  Not  because  you 
deliberately  made  me  care  for  you  with  my  body,  in  the  beastly, 
wholly  physical  way,  but  because  you  wouldn't  let  the  other 
thing  alone." 

"The  other  thing?" 

"  Haven't  we  got  something  else  as  well  as  the  body?  Look 
here  —  before  I  ever  knew  you  I  was  always  trying  to  build. 
At  first  I  tried  to  build  for  a  possible  future  which  might  never 
come.  Well,  it  did  come,  and  I  was  glad  I'd  stuck  to  my 
building  —  sometimes  when  it  was  difficult.  Then  I  tried  to 
build  for  —  for  my  wife  —  and  then  my  child  came  and  I  tried 
to  build  for  him,  too.  So  it  went  on.  I  was  always  building, 
or  trying  to.  In  South  Africa  I  was  doing  it,  and  I  came  back 
feeling  as  if  I'd  got  something  to  show,  not  much,  but  something, 
for  my  work.  Then  the  crash  came,  and  I  thought  I  knew 
sorrow  and  horror  down  to  the  bones.  But  I  didn't.  I've 
only  got  to  know  them  to  the  bones  here.  You've  made  me 
know  them.  If  you'd  loved  me  I  should  never  have  complained, 
have  attacked  you,  been  brutal  to  you;  but  when  I  think  that 
you've  never  cared  a  rap  about  me,  never  cared  for  anything 

but  my  body,  and  that  —  that "  his  voice  broke  for  a 

moment;  then  he  recovered  himself  and  went  on,  more  harshly, 
— "and  that  merely  from  desire,  or  whatever  you  choose  to 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  561 

call  it,  you've  sent  the  last  stones  of  my  building  to  dust,  I 
sometimes  feel  as  if  I  could  murder  you.  If  you  meant  to  kick 
me  out  and  be  free  of  me  when  you  had  had  enough  of  me,  you 
should  never  have  brought  Jimmy  into  the  matter;  for  in  a 
way  you  could  never  understand  Jimmy  was  linked  up  with 
my  boy,  with  Robin.  When  you  made  me  earn  Jimmy's  hatred 
by  being  utterly  false  to  all  I  really  was,  you  separated  me  from 
my  boy.  I  killed  him,  but  till  then  I  was  sometimes  near  him. 
Ever  since  that  night  of  lying  and  dirty  pretence  he's  —  he's  — 
I've  lost  him.  You've  taken  my  boy  from  me.  Why  should  1 
leave  you  yours?  " 

"  But  you're  mad  —  when  my  boy's  alive  and " 

"  And  so's  mine !  " 

She  stared  at  him  in  silence. 

"  You  can't  give  him  back  to  me.  Jimmy  shrinks  from  me 
not  because  of  what  I've  done,  but  because  of  what  I've  become, 
and  my  boy  feels  as  Jimmy  does.  He  —  he " 

Mrs.  Clarke  pushed  back  her  chair  bruskly.  She  was  now 
feeling  really  afraid.  She  longed  to  call  in  Sonia.  She  wished 
the  other  servants  were  in  the  flat  instead  of  at  Buyukderer. 

"  Your  boy's  dead,"  she  said,  dully,  obstinately.  "  Jimmy 
has  nothing  to  do  with  him  —  never  had  anything  to  do  with 
him.  And  as  for  me,  I  have  never  interfered  between  you  and 
your  child." 

She  got  up.     So  did  he. 

"Never,  never!  "  she  repeated.  "  But  your  mind  is  warped 
and  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying." 

"  I  do.  But  we  won't  argue  about  it.  You're  a  materialist 
and  you  can't  understand  the  real  things." 

His  own  words  seemed  suddenly  to  strike  upon  him  like  a 
great  blow. 

"  The  real  things !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I've  lost  them  all  for 
ever.  But  I'll  keep  what  I've  got.  I'll  keep  what  I've  got. 
You  hate  me  and  I  hate  you,  but  we  belong  to  each  other  and 
we'll  stick  together,  and  Jimmy  must  make  up  his  mind  to 
it.  Once  you  said  that  if  he  was  twenty-one  you'd  tell  him  all 
about  it.  If  you're  going  to  England  I'll  go  there  too,  and  we 
can  enlighten  Jimmy  a  little  sooner.  Now  let  us  be  off  to 
the  rooms.  As  you've  taken  a  dislike  to  them  we'll  give  them 
up.  But  we  must  pay  a  last  visit  to  them,  a  visit  of  good-by." 

She  shuddered.  The  thought  of  being  shut  up  alone  with 
him  horrified  her  imagination.  She  waited  a  moment;  then  she 
said : 


562  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

"  Very  well.     I'll  go  and  put  on  my  things." 

And  she  went  out  of  the  room.  She  wanted  to  gain  time, 
to  be  quite  alone  for  a  moment. 

When  she  was  in  her  bedroom  she  did  not  summon  Sonia, 
who  was  in  the  kitchen  washing  up.  Slowly  she  went  to  get 
out  a  wrap  and  a  hat.  Standing  before  the  glass  she  adjusted 
the  hat  on  her  head  carefully,  adroitly;  then  she  drew  the 
wrap  around  her  shoulders  and  picked  up  a  pair  of  long  gloves. 
After  an  instant  of  hesitation  she  began  to  pull  them  on.  The 
process  took  several  minutes.  She  was  careful  to  smooth  out 
every  wrinkle.  While  she  did  so  she  was  thinking  of  Rosa- 
mund Leith. 

All  through  the  evening  she  had  been  on  the  verge  of  telling 
Dion  that  his  wife  was  in  Constantinople,  but  something  had 
held  her  back.  And  even  now  she  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  whether  to  tell  him  or  not.  She  was  afraid  to  risk  the 
revelation  because  she  did  not  know  at  all  how  he  would  take 
it.  When  he  knew  she  might  be  free.  There  was  the  possi- 
bility of  that.  He  must  realize,  he  would  surely  be  obliged  to 
realize,  that  his  wife  could  have  but  one  purpose  in  deliberately 
traveling  out  to  the  place  where  he  was  living.  She  must  be 
seeking  a  reconciliation,  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  which  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  read  in  her  eyes  that  day.  But  would  Dion  face 
those  eyes  with  the  hard  defiance  of  one  irreparably  aloof  from 
his  former  life?  If  he  were  really  ready  and  determined  to 
show  himself  in  London  as  the  lover  of  another  woman  would 
he  not  be  ready  to  do  the  same  thing  here  in  Constantinople? 

To  tell  him  seemed  to  Mrs.  Clarke  the  one  chance  of  escape 
for  her  now,  but  she  was  afraid  to  tell  him  because  she  was 
afraid  to  know  that  what  seemed  the  only  possible  avenue  to 
freedom  was  barred  against  her.  She  had  said  to  herself  at  the 
piano  "  Vouloir  c'est  pouvoir,"  and  she  had  determined  to  be 
free,  but  again  Dion's  will  of  a  desperate  man  had  towered 
up  over  hers.  It  was  the  fact  that  he  was  desperate  which 
gave  to  him  his  power. 

At  last  the  gloves  lay  absolutely  smooth  on  her  hands  and 
arms,  and  she  went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  Till  she  opened 
the  door  of  it  she  did  not  know  what  she  was  going  to  do. 

".So  you're  dressed!  "  Dion  said  as  she  came  in.  "That's 
right.  Let's  be  off." 

"  What  is  the  good  of  going  ?  You  have  said  we  hate  each 
other.  How  can  this  sort  of  thing  go  on  in  hatred?  Dion, 
let  us  give  it  all  up." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  563, 

"  Why  have  you  put  on  your  things?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Let  us  say  good-by  to-night,  and  not  in 
anger.  We  were  not  suited  to  be  together  for  long.  We  are  too- 
different." 

"  How  many  men  have  you  said  all  this  to  already  ?  Come 
along!" 

He  took  her  firmly  by  the  wrist. 

"Wait,  Dion!" 

"  Why  should  we  wait?  " 

"  There's  something  I  must  tell  you  before  we  go." 

He  kept  his  hand  on  her  wrist. 

"Well?     What  is   it?" 

"  I  went  to  Santa  Sophia  to-day." 

As  she  spoke  the  Bedouin  came  before  her  again.  She  saw 
his  bronze-colored  arms  and  his  bird-like  eyes. 

"Santa  Sophia!     Did  you  go  to  pray?" 

She  stared  at  him.     His  lips  were  curled  in  a  smile. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  But  I  like  to  go  there  sometimes.  As  I 
was  coming  away  I  met  some  one." 

"Well?" 

"  Some  one  you  know  —  a  woman." 

"A  woman?    Lady  Ingleton?  " 

"  No;  your  wife." 

The  fingers  which  held  her  wrist  became  suddenly  cold,  but 
they  still  pressed  firmly  upon  her  flesh. 

"That's  a  lie!  "  he  said  hoarsely. 

"It  isn't!" 

"  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  a  lie?  " 

He  bent  and  gazed  into  her  eyes. 

"Liar!     Liar!" 

But  though  his  lips  made  the  assertion,  his  eyes,  in 
agony,  seemed  to  be  asking  a  question.  He  seized  her  other 
wrist. 

"  What's  your  object  in  telling  me  such  a  lie  ?  What  are 
you  trying  to  gain  by  it?  Do  you  think  you'll  get  rid  of  me 
for  to-night,  and  that  to-morrow,  by  some  trick,  you'll  escape 
from  me  forever?  D'you  think  that?" 

"  I  met  your  wife  to-day  just  outside  Santa  Sophia,"  she 
said  steadily.  "  When  she  saw  me  she  stopped.  We  looked 
at  each  other  for  a  minute.  Neither  of  us  spoke  a  word.  But 
she  told  me  something." 

"  Told  you  ...   ?  " 

"  With  her  eyes.     She  knows  about  you  and  me." 


564  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

His  hands  fell  from  her  wrists.  By  the  look  in  his  eyes 
she  saw  that  he  was  beginning  to  believe  her. 

"  She  knows,"  Mrs.  Ckrke  repeated.  "  And  yet  she  has 
come  here.  What  does  that  mean?  " 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  he  repeated,  in  a  muttering  voice. 

"  Do  you  believe  what  I  say?  " 

After  a  long  look  at  her  he  said : 

"  Yes;  she  is  here." 

A  fierce  wave  of  red  went  over  his  face.  For  a  moment  his 
eyes  shone.  Then  a  look  of  despair  and  horror  made  him  fright- 
ful, and  stirred  even  in  her  a  sensation  of  pity. 

He  began  to  tremble. 

"  Don't!  Don't!  "  she  said,  putting  out  her  hands  and  mov- 
ing away. 

"  She  can't  know!  "  he  said,  trembling  more  violently. 

"  She  does  know." 

"  She  wouldn't  have  come.  She  doesn't  know.  She  doesn't 
know." 

"  She  does  know.  Now  I'm  ready,  if  you  want  to  go  to 
the  rooms." 

Dion  went  white  to  the  lips.  He  came  towards  her.  His 
eyes  were  so  menacing  that  she  felt  sure  he  was  going  to  do 
her  some  dreadful  injury;  but  when  he  was  close  to  her  he  con- 
trolled himself  and  stood  still.  For  what  seemed  to  her  a 
very  long  time  he  stood  there,  looking  at  her  as  a  man  looks 
at  the  heap  of  his  sins  when  the  sword  has  cloven  a  way  into 
the  depths  of  his  spirit.  Then  he  said: 

"  You're  free." 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  door  open.  A  moment 
later  Mrs.  Clarke  heard  the  front  door  shut,  and  his  footsteps 
on  the  stone  stairs  outside.  They  died  away. 

Then  she  began  to  sob.  She  felt  shaken  and  frightened 
almost  like  a  child.  But  presently  her  sobs  ceased.  She  took 
off  her  hat  and  wrap  and  her  gloves,  lay  down  on  the  sofa, 
put  her  hands  behind  her  small  head,  and,  motionless,  gazed 
at  the  pale  gray  wall  of  the  room.  It  seemed  to  fade  away 
after  she  had  gazed  at  it  for  two  or  three  minutes;  a  world 
opened  out  before  her,  and  she  saw  a  barrier,  like  a  long  deep 
trench,  stretching  into  a  far  distance.  On  one  side  of  this 
trench  stood  a  boy  with  densely  thick  hair  and  large  hands 
and  frank,  observant  eyes;  on  the  other  stood  a  Bedouin  of  the 
desert. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  565 

Then  she  shuddered.  Dion  had  told  her  she  was  free.  But 
was  she  free  ?  Could  she  ever  be  free  now  ? 

Suddenly  she  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears.  She  was  inun- 
dated with  self-pity.  She  had  prayed  to  the  Unknown  God. 
He  had  answered  her  prayer,  but  nevertheless,  he  had  surely 
cursed  her.  For  love  and  lust  were  at  merciless  war  within 
her.  She  was  tormented. 

That  night  she  knew  she  had  run  up  a  debt  which  she  would 
be  forced  to  pay;  she  knew  that  her  punishment  was  beginning. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEN  Dion  came  out  into  the  street  he  stood  still  on 
the  pavement.     It  was  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock. 
Stamboul,  the  mysterious  city,  was  plunged  in  dark- 
ness, but  Pera  was  lit  up  and  astir,  was  full  of  blatant  and 
furtive  activities.     He  listened  to  its  voices  as  he  stood  under 
the  stars,  and  presently  from  them  the  voice  of  a  woman  de- 
tached itself,  and  said  clearly  and  with  a  sort  of  beautifully 
wondering  slowness,"  I  can  see  the  Pleiades." 

Tears  started  into  his  eyes.  He  was  afraid  of  that  voice 
and  yet  his  whole  being  longed  desperately  to  hear  it  again. 
The  knowledge  that  Rosamund  was  here  in  Constantinople, 
very  near  to  him  —  how  it  had  changed  the  whole  city  for  him ! 
Every  light  that  gleamed,  every  sound  that  rose  up,  seemed  to 
hold  for  him  a  terrible  vital  meaning.  And  he  knew  that  all 
the  time  he  had  been  living  in  Constantinople  it  had  been  to 
him  a  horrible  city  of  roaring  emptiness,  and  he  knew  that  now, 
in  a  moment,  it  had  become  the  true  center  of  the  world.  He 
was  amazed  and  he  was  horrified  by  the  power  and  intensity  of 
the  love  within  him.  In  this  moment  he  knew  it  for  an  undying 
thing.  Nothing  could  kill  it,  no  act  of  Rosamund's,  no  act  of 
his.  Even  lust  had  not  suffocated  the  purity  of  it,  even  satiety 
of  the  flesh  had  not  lessened  the  yearning  of  it,  or  availed  to 
deprive  it  of  its  ardent  simplicity,  of  its  ideal  character.  In  it 
there  was  still  the  child  with  his  wonder,  the  boy  with  his 
stirring  aspirations  towards  life,  the  man  with  his  full-grown 
passion.  He  had  sought  to  kill  it  and  he  had  not  even  touched 


566  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

it.  He  knew  that  now  and  was  shaken  by  the  knowledge. 
Where  did  it  dwell  then,  this  thing  that  governed  him  and 
that  he  could  not  break?  He  longed  to  get  at  it,  to  seize  it,  hold 
it  to  some  fierce  light,  examine  it.  And  then?  Would  he 
wish  to  cast  it  away? 

"  I  can  see  the  Pleiades." 

For  a  moment  the  peace  of  Olympia  was  about  him,  and 
he  heard  the  voices  of  Eternity  whispering  among  the  pine 
trees.  Then  the  irreparable  blotted  out  that  green  beauty,  that 
message  from  the  beyond;  reality  rushed  upon  him.  He  turned 
and  looked  at  the  building  he  had  just  left.  It  towered  above 
him,  white,  bare,  with  its  rows  of  windows.  He  knew  that  he 
would  never  go  into  it  again,  that  he  had  done  forever  with 
the  woman  in  there  who  hated  him.  Yes,  he  had  done  with 
her  insomuch  as  a  man  can  finish  with  any  one  who  has  been 
closely,  intimately,  for  good  or  for  evil,  in  his  life.  As  he 
watched  her  windows  for  a  moment  his  mind  reviewed  swiftly 
his  connection  with  her,  from  the  moment  when  she  had  held 
his  hand  indifferently,  yet  with  intention,  in  Mrs.  Chetwinde's 
drawing-room,  till  the  moment,  just  past,  when  he  had  said 
to  her,  "  You  are  free."  And  he  knew  that  from  the  first 
moment  when  she  had  seen  him  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
some  day  he  should  be  her  lover.  He  hated  her,  and  yet  he 
knew  now  that  in  some  strange  and  obscure  way  he  almost 
respected  her,  for  her  determination,  her  unscrupulous  courage, 
her  will  to  live  as  she  chose  to  live.  She  at  any  rate  possessed 
a  kind  of  evil  strength.  And  he ? 

Slowly  he  turned  away  from  that  house.  He  did  not  know 
where  Rosamund  was  staying,  but  he  thought  she  was  probably 
at  the  Hotel  de  Byzance,  and  he  walked  almost  mechanically 
towards  it.  He  was  burning  with  excitement,  and  yet  there 
was  within  him  something  cold,  capable  and  relentless,  which 
considered  him  almost  as  a  judge  considers  a  criminal,  which 
seemed  to  be  probing  into  the  rotten  part  of  his  nature,  de- 
termined to  know  once  and  for  all  just  how  rotten  it  was.  Rosa- 
mund surely  was  strong  in  her  goodness  as  Mrs.  Clarke  was 
strong  in  her  evil.  He  had  known  the  cruelty  of  both  those 
strengths.  And  why?  Surely  because  he  himself  had  never 
been  really  strong.  Intensity  of  feeling  had  constantly  betrayed 
him  into  weakness.  And  even  now  was  it  not  weakness  in 
him,  this  inability  to  leave  off  loving  Rosamund  after  all  that 
had  happened  ?  Perhaps  the  power  of  feeling  intensely  was  the 
great  betrayer  of  a  man. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  567 

He  descended  the  Grande  Rue,  moving  in  the  midst  of  a 
press  of  humanity,  but  strongly  conscious  only  of  Rosamund's 
nearness  to  him,  until  at  last  he  was  in  front  of  the  Hotel  de 
Byzance.  He  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  looking 
at  the  lighted  windows,  at  the  doorway  through  which  people 
came  and  went.  Was  she  in  there,  close  to  him?  Why  had 
she  come  to  Constantinople? 

She  must  have  come  there  because  of  him.  There  could  not 
surely  be  any  other  reason  for  her  traveling  so  far  to  the  city 
where  she  knew  he  was  living.  But  then  she  must  have  re- 
pented of  her  cruelty  after  the  death  of  Robin,  have  thought 
seriously  of  resuming  her  married  life.  It  must  be  so.  Inex- 
orably Dion's  reason  led  him  to  that  conclusion.  Having 
reached  it  he  looked  at  himself,  and  again  his  own  weakness 
confronted  him  like  a  specter  which  would  not  leave  him,  which 
dogged  him  relentlessly  down  all  the  ways  of  his  life. 
Prompted,  governed  by  that  weakness,  which  he  had  actually 
mistaken  madly  for  strength,  for  an  assertion  of  his  manhood, 
he  had  raised  up  between  Rosamund  and  himself  perhaps  the 
only  barrier  which  could  never  be  broken  down,  the  barrier  of 
a  great  betrayal.  What  she  had  most  cared  for  in  him  he  had 
trampled  into  the  dirt;  he  had  slain  the  purity  which  had  drawn 
her  to  him. 

Mrs.  Clarke  had  said  that  Rosamund  knew  of  their  connex- 
ion. He  believed  her.  He  could  not  help  trusting  her  hor- 
rible capacity  to  read  such  a  truth  in  another  woman's  eyes. 
It  must  be  so.  Rosamund  surely  could  only  have  learned  in 
Constantinople  the  horrible  truth  which  would  forever  divide 
them.  She  must  have  traveled  out  with  the  intention  of  see- 
ing him  again,  of  telling  him  that  she  repented  of  what  she  had 
done,  and  then  in  the  city  which  had  seen  his  degradation  she 
must  have  found  out  what  he  was. 

He  saw  her  outraged,  bitterly  ashamed  of  having  made  the 
long  journey  to  seek  a  man  who  had  betrayed  her;  he  saw  her 
wounded  in  the  soul.  She  had  wounded  him  in  the  soul,  but 
at  this  moment  he  scarcely  thought  of  that.  The  knowledge 
that  she  was  near  to  him  seemed  to  have  suddenly  renewed  the 
pure  springs  of  his  youth.  When  Cynthia  Clarke  had  said, 
"  Now  I'm  ready  if  you  want  to  go  to  the  rooms,"  she  had  re- 
ceived her  freedom  from  the  Dion  who  had  won  Rosamund, 
not  from  the  withered  and  embittered  man  upon  whom  she  had 
perversely  seized  in  his  misery  and  desolation. 

That  Rosamund  should  travel  to  him  and  then  know  him  for 


568  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

what  he  was!  All  his  intense  bitterness  against  her  was  swept 
away  by  the  flood  of  his  hatred  of  himself. 

Suddenly  the  lights  of  the  city  seemed  to  fade  before  his 
eyes  and  the  voices  of  the  city  seemed  to  lose  their  chattering 
gaiety.  Darkness  and  horrible  mutterings  were  about  him.  He 
heard  the  last  door  closing  against  him.  He  accounted  himself 
from  henceforth  among  the  damned.  Lifting  his  head  he  stared 
for  a  moment  at  the  Hotel  de  Byzance.  Now  he  felt  sure  that 
she  was  there.  He  knew  she  was  there,  and  he  bade  her  an 
eternal  farewell.  Not  she  —  as  for  so  long  he  had  thought  — 
but  he  had  broken  their  marriage.  She  had  sinned  in  the  soul. 
But  to-night  he  did  not  see  her  sin.  He  saw  only  his  black 
sin  of  the  body,  the  irreparable  sin  he  had  committed  against 
her  shining  purity  to  which  he  had  been  united. 

How  could  he  have  committed  that  sin? 

He  turned  away  from  the  hotel,  and  went  down  towards  his 
lodgings  in  Galata;  he  felt  as  he  walked,  like  one  treading  a 
descent  which  led  down  into  eternal  darkness. 

How  had  he  come  to  do  what  he  had  done? 

Already  he  saw  Cynthia  Clarke  as  something  far  away,  an  al- 
most meaningless  phantom.  He  wondered  why  he  had  felt 
power  in  her;  he  wondered  what  it  was  that  had  led  him  to 
her,  had  kept  him  beside  her,  had  bound  him  to  her.  She  was 
nothing.  She  had  never  really  been  anything  to  him.  And 
yet  she  had  ruined  his  life.  He  saw  her  pale  and  haggard 
face,  her  haunted  cheeks  and  temples,  the  lovely  shape  of  her 
head  with  its  cloud  of  unshining  hair,  her  small  tenacious  hands. 
He  saw  her  distinctly.  But  she  was  far  away,  utterly  remote 
from  him.  She  had  meant  nothing  to  him,  and  yet  she  had 
ruined  him.  Let  her  go.  Her  work  was  done. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  went  at  last  to  his  lodgings, 
which  were  in  a  high  house  not  far  from  the  Tophane  landing. 
From  his  windows  he  could  see  the  Golden  Horn,  and  the 
minarets  and  domes  of  Stamboul.  His  two  rooms,  though 
clean,  were  shabbily  furnished  and  unattractive.  He  had  a 
Greek  servant  who  came  in  every  day  to  do  what  was  necessary. 
He  never  received  any  visitors  in  these  rooms,  which  he  had 
taken  when  he  gave  up  going  into  the  society  of  the  diplomats 
and  others,  to  whom  he  had  been  introduced  at  Buyukderer. 

His  feet  echoed  on  the  dirty  staircase  as  he  mounted  slowly 
up  till  he  stood  in  front  of  his  own  door.  Slowly,  like  one 
making  an  effort  that  was  almost  painful  to  him  he  searched 
for  his  key  and  drew  it  out.  His  hand  shook  as  he  inserted  the 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  569 

key  into  the  keyhole.  He  tried  to  steady  his  hand,  but  he 
could  not  control  its  furtive  and  perpetual  movement.  When 
the  door  was  open  he  struck  a  match,  and  lit  a  candle  that  stood 
on  a  chair  in  the  dingy  and  narrow  lobby.  Then  he  turned 
round  wearily  to  shut  the  door.  He  was  possessed  by  a  great 
fatigue,  and  wondered  whether,  if  he  fell  on  his  bed  in  the 
blackness,  he  would  be  able  to  sleep.  As  he  turned,  he  saw, 
lying  on  the  matting  at  his  feet,  a  square  white  envelope.  It 
was  lying  upside  down.  Some  one  must  have  pushed  it  under 
the  door  while  he  was  out. 

He  stood  looking  at  it  for  a  minute.  Then  he  shut  the 
door,  bent  down,  picked  up  the  envelope,  turned  it  over  and 
held  it  near  to  the  candle  flame.  He  read  his  name  and  the 
handwriting  was  Rosamund's. 

After  a  long  pause  he  took  the  candle  and  carried  the  letter 
into  his  sitting-room.  He  set  the  candle  down  on  the  table  on 
which  lay  "  The  Kasidah  "  and  a  few  other  books,  laid  the 
letter  beside  it,  with  trembling  hands  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat 
down. 

Rosamund  had  written  to  him.  When?  Before  she  had 
learnt  the  truth  or  afterwards? 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there,  leaning  over  the  table,  staring 
at  the  address  which  her  hand  had  written.  And  he  saw  her 
hand,  so  different  from  Mrs.  Clarke's,  and  he  remembered  its 
touch  upon  his,  absolutely  unlike  the  touch  of  any  other  hand 
ever  felt  by  him.  Something  quivered  in  his  flesh.  The  agony 
of  the  body  rushed  upon  him  and  mingled  with  the  agony  of  the 
soul.  He  bent  down,  laid  his  hot  forehead  against  the  letter, 
and  shut  his  eyes. 

A  clock  struck  presently.  He  opened  his  eyes,  lifted  his 
head,  took  up  the  envelope,  quickly  tore  it,  and  unfolded  the 
paper  within. 

"  HOTEL  DE  BYZANCE,  CONSTANTINOPLE, 

Wednesday  evening 

"  I  am  here.  I  want  to  see  you.  Shall  I  come  to  you  to- 
morrow? I  can  come  at  any  time,  or  I  can  meet  you  at  any 
place  you  choose.  Only  tell  me  the  hour  and  how  to  go  if  it  is 
difficult.  ROSAMUND  " 

Wednesday  evening!  It  was  now  the  night  of  Wednesday. 
Then  Rosamund  had  written  to  him  after  she  had  been  to 
Santa  Sophia  and  had  met  Mrs.  Clarke.  She  knew,  and  yet 


570  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

she  wrote  to  him;  she  asked  to  see  him;  she  even  offered  to 
come  to  his  rooms.  The  thing  was  incomprehensible. 

He  read  the  note  again.  He  pored  over  every  word  in  it  al- 
most like  a  child.  Then  he  held  it  in  his  hand,  sat  back  in 
his  chair  and  wondered. 

What  did  Rosamund  mean?  Why  did  she  wish  to  see  him? 
What  could  she  intend  to  do?  His  intimate  knowledge  of  what 
Rosamund  was  companioned  him  at  this  moment  —  that  knowl- 
edge which  no  separation,  which  no  hatred  even,  could  ever 
destroy.  She  was  fastidiously  pure.  She  could  never  be  any- 
thing else.  He  could  not  conceive  of  her  ever  drawing  near 
to,  and  associating  herself  deliberately  with,  bodily  degradation. 
He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  known  her,  with  her  relations,  her 
friends,  with  himself,  with  Robin.  Always  in  every  relation 
of  life  a  radiant  purity  had  been  about  her  like  an  atmosphere; 
always  she  had  walked  in  rays  of  the  sun.  Until  Robin  had 
died !  And  then  she  had  withdrawn  into  the  austere  purity  of  the 
religious  life.  He  felt  it  to  be  absolutely  impossible  that  she 
should  seek  him,  even  seek  but  one  interview  with  him,  if  she 
knew  what  his  life  had  been  during  the  last  few  months.  And, 
feeling  that,  he  was  now  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs. 
Clarke's  intuition  had  gone  for  once  astray.  If  Rosamund  knew 
she  would  never  have  written  that  note.  Again  he  looked  at  it, 
read  it.  It  must  have  been  written  in  complete  ignorance.  Mrs. 
Clarke  had  made  a  mistake.  Perhaps  she  had  teen  betrayed 
into  error  by  her  own  knowledge  of  guilt.  And  yet  such  a 
lapse  was  very  uncharacteristic  of  her.  He  compared  his 
knowledge  of  her  with  his  knowledge  of  Rosamund.  It  was 
absolutely  impossible  that  Rosamund  had  written  that  letter  to 
him  with  full  understanding  of  his  situation  in  Constantinople. 
But  she  might  have  heard  rumors.  She  might  have  resolved 
to  clear  them  up.  Having  traveled  out  with  the  intention  of 
seeking  a  reconciliation  she  might  have  thought  it  due  to  him 
to  accept  evil  tidings  of  him  only  from  his  own  lips.  Always, 
he  knew,  she  had  absolutely  trusted  in  his  loyalty  and  faithful- 
ness to  her.  Perhaps  then,  even  though  she  had  put  him  out 
of  her  life,  she  was  unable  to  believe  that  he  had  tried  to  for- 
get her  in  unfaithfulness.  Perhaps  that  was  the  true  explana- 
tion of  her  conduct. 

Could  he  then  save  himself  from  destruction  by  a  great  lie? 

He  sat  pondering  that  problem,  oblivious  of  time.  Could  he 
lie  to  Rosamund?  All  his  long  bitterness  against  her  for  the 
moment  was  gone,  driven  out  by  his  self-condemnation.  A  great 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  571 

love  must  forgive.  It  cannot  help  itself.  It  carries  within  it, 
as  a  child  is  carried  in  the  womb,  the  sweet  burden  of  divinity, 
and  shares  in  the  attributes  of  God.  So  it  was  with  Dion  on 
that  night  as  he  sat  in  his  dingy  room.  And  presently  his 
soul  rejected  the  lie  he  had  abominably  thought  of.  He  knew 
he  could  not  tell  Rosamund  a  lie.  Then  what  was  he  to 
do? 

He  drew  out  of  a  drawer  a  piece  of  letter  paper,  dipped  a 
pen  in  ink.  He  had  a  mind  to  write  the  horrible  truth  which 
he  could  surely  never  speak. 

"  I  have  received  your  letter,"  he  wrote,  in  a  blurred  and  un- 
steady handwriting.  Then  he  stopped.  He  stared  at  the  paper, 
pushed  it  away  from  him,  and  got  up.  He  could  not  write  the 
truth.  He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the  dark' 
night.  Here  and  there  he  saw  faint  lights.  But  Stamboul  was 
almost  hidden  in  the  gloom,  a  city  rather  suggested  by  its 
shadow  than  actually  visible.  The  Golden  Horn  was  a  tangled 
mystery.  There  were  some  withdrawn  stars. 

Should  he  not  reply  to  Rosamund's  letter?  If  she  had  heard 
rumors  about  his  life  would  not  his  silence  convey  to  her  the 
fact  that  they  were  true?  He  had  perhaps  only  to  do  nothing 
and  Rosamund  would  understand  and  —  would  leave  Constan- 
tinople. 

The  blackness  which  shrouded  Stamboul  suddenly  seemed 
to  him  to  become  more  solid,  impregnable.  He  felt  that  his 
own  life  would  be  drowned  in  blackness  if  Rosamund  went 
away.  And  abruptly  he  knew  that  he  must  see  her.  Whatever 
the  cost,  whatever  the  shame  and  bitterness,  he  must  see  her  at 
once.  He  would  tell  her,  or  try  to  tell  her,  what  he  had  been 
through,  what  he  had  suffered,  why  he  had  done  what  he  had 
done.  Possibly  she  would  be  able  to  understand.  If  only 
he  could  find  the  words  that  would  give  her  the  inner  truth 
perhaps  they  might  reach  her  heart.  Something  intense  told 
him  that  he  must  try  to  make  her  understand  how  he  had  loved 
her,  through  all  his  hideous  attempts  to  slay  his  love  of  her. 
Could  a  woman  understand  such  a  thing?  Desperately  he 
wondered.  Might  not  his  terrible  sincerity  perhaps  overwhelm 
her  doubts? 

He  left  the  window,  sat  down  again  at  the  table,  and  wrote 
quickly. 

"  I  have  had  your  letter.  Will  you  meet  me  to-morrow  at 
Eyub,  in  the  cemetery  on  the  hill?  I  will  be  near  the  Tekkeh 


572  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  the  dancing  Dervishes.     I  will  be  there  before  noon,  and  will 
wait  all  day.  DION  " 

When  he  began  to  write  he  knew  that  he  could  not  make 
his  confession  to  Rosamund  within  the  four  walls  of  his  sordid 
and  dingy  room.  Her  power  to  understand  would  surely  be 
taken  from  her  there.  Might  it  not  be  released  under  the 
sky  of  morning,  within  sight  of  those  minarets  which  he  had 
sometimes  feared,  but  which  he  had  always  secretly,  in  some 
obscure  way,  loved  even  in  the  most  abominable  moments  of 
his  abominable  life,  as  he  had  always  secretly,  beneath  all  the 
hard  bitterness  of  his  stricken  heart,  loved  Rosamund?  From 
them  came  the  voice  which  would  not  be  gainsaid,  the  voice 
which  whispered,  "  In  the  East  thou  shalt  find  me  if  thou  hast 
not  found  me  in  the  West."  Might  not  that  voice  help  him 
when  he  spoke  to  Rosamund,  help  her  to  understand  him,  help 
her  perhaps  even  to 

But  there  he  stopped.  He  dared  not  contemplate  the  possi- 
bility of  her  being  able  to  accept  the  man  he  had  become  as 
her  companion.  And  yet  now  he  felt  himself  somehow  closely 
akin  to  the  former  Dion,  flesh  of  that  man's  flesh,  bone  of  his 
bone.  It  was  as  if  his  sin  fell  from  him  when  he  so  utterly 
repented  of  it 

Slowly  he  put  the  note  he  had  written  into  an  envelope,  sealed 
it,  and  wrote  the  address  — "  Mrs.  Dion  Leith,  Hotel  de 
Byzance."  He  blotted  it.  Then  he  fetched  his  hat  and  stick. 
He  meant  to  take  the  note  himself  to  the  Hotel  de  Byzance. 
The  night  might  be  made  for  sleep,  but  he  knew  he  could  not 
sleep  till  he  had  seen  Rosamund.  When  he  was  out  in  the 
air,  and  was  walking  uphill  towards  Pera,  he  realized  that 
within  him,  in  spite  of  all,  something  of  hope  still  lingered. 
Rosamund's  letter  to  him  had  wrought  already  a  wonderful 
change  in  his  tortured  life.  The  knowledge  that  he  would 
see  her  again,  be  with  her  alone,  even  if  only  for  an  hour,  even 
if  only  that  he  might  tell  her  what  would  alienate  her  from 
him  forever,  thrilled  through  him,  seemed  even  to  shed  a  fierce 
strength  and  alertness  through  his  body.  Now  that  he  was 
going  to  see  her  once  more  he  knew  what  the  long  separation 
from  her  had  meant  to  him.  He  had  known  the  living  death. 
Within  a  few  hours  he  would  have  at  least  some  moments  of 
life.  They  would  be  terrible  moments,  shameful  —  but  they 
would  take  him  back  into  life.  Fiercely,  passionately,  he  looked 
forward  to  them. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  573 

He  left  his  letter  at  the  hotel,  giving  it  into  the  hands  of  a 
weary  Albanian  night  porter.  Then  he  returned  to  his  rooms, 
undressed,  washed  in  cold  water,  and  lay  down  on  his  bed. 
And  presently  he  was  praying  in  the  dark,  instinctively  almost 
as  a  child  prays.  He  was  praying  for  the  impossible.  For  he 
believed  that  it  was  absolutely  impossible  that  Rosamund  could 
ever  forgive  him  for  what  he  had  done,  and  yet  he  prayed  that 
she  might  forgive  him.  And  he  felt  as  if  he  were  praying  with 
all  his  body  as  well  as  with  all  his  soul. 

In  the  dawn  he  was  tired.     But  he  did  not  sleep  at  all. 

About  ten  o'clock  he  went  out  to  take  the  boat  to  Eyub. 


AT  a  few  minutes  past  eleven  Dion  was  in  the  vast  ceme- 
tery on  the  hill.  It  was  a  gray  morning,  still  and  hot. 
Languor  was  in  the  air.  The  grayness,  the  silence,  the 
oily  waters,  suggested  a  brooding  resignation.  The  place  of  the 
dead  was  almost  deserted.  He  wandered  through  it,  and  met 
only  two  or  three  Turks,  who  returned  his  glance  impassively. 
After  the  sleepless  night  he  had  come  out  feeling  painfully 
excited  and  scarcely  master  of  himself.  In  Galata  and  on  the 
boat  he  had  not  dared  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  those  who  thronged 
about  him.  He  had  felt  transparent,  as  if  all  his  thoughts  and 
his  tumultuous  feelings  must  be  visible  to  any  one  who  regarded 
him  with  attention.  But  now  he  was  encompassed  by  a  sen- 
sation of  almost  dull  calmness.  He  looked  at  the  grayness  and 
at  the  innumerable  graves,  he  was  conscious  of  the  stagnant 
heat,  he  seemed  to  draw  into  himself  the  wide  silence,  and  the 
excitement  faded  out  of  him,  was  replaced  by  a  curious  inertia. 
Both  his  mind  and  his  body  felt  tired  and  resigned.  The 
gravestones  suggested  death,  the  end  of  the  earthly  hopes,  as- 
pirations, yearnings  and  despairs  of  men.  A  few  bones  and  a 
headstone  —  to  that  he  was  traveling.  And  yet  all  through  the 
night  he  had  been  on  fire  with  longing,  and  with  a  fear  that 
had  seemed  almost  red  hot.  Now  he  thought  he  per- 
haps understood  the  fatalism  of  the  Turk.  Whatever  must  be 
must  be.  All  was  written  surely  from  the  beginning.  It  was 
written  that  to-day  he  should  be  alone  in  the  cemetery  of  Eyub, 


574  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

and  it  was  written  that  Rosamund  should  come  to  him  there, 
or  not  come  to  him. 

If  she  did  not  come? 

He  remembered  the  exact  wording  of  his  letter  to  her,  and 
he  realized  for  the  first  time  that  in  her  letter  she  had  asked  him 
to  tell  her  how  to  go  to  their  meeting-place  "if  it  is  difficult," 
and  that  he  had  not  told  her  what  she  had  to  do  in  order  to  come 
to  Eyub. 

But  of  course  she  had  a  dragoman,  and  he  would  bring  her. 
She  could  not  possibly  come  alone. 

Perhaps,  however,  she  would  not  come. 

Long  ago  she  had  opened  and  read  his  letter  and  had  taken 
her  decision.  If  she  were  coming,  probably  she  was  already  on 
the  way.  He  forced  himself  to  imagine  the  whole  day  passed 
by  him  alone  in  the  cemetery,  the  light  failing  as  the  evening 
drew  on,  the  darkness  of  night  swallowing  up  Stamboul,  the 
knowledge  forced  upon  him  that  Rosamund  had  abandoned  the 
idea  of  seeing  him  again.  He  imagined  himself  returning  to 
Constantinople  in  the  night,  going  to  the  Hotel  de  Byzance  and 
learning  that  she  had  left  by  the  Orient  express  of  that  day  for 
England. 

What  would  he  feel? 

A  handful  of  bones  and  a  headstone!  Whatever  happened  to- 
day, and  in  the  future,  he  was  on  his  way  to  just  that.  Then 
why  agonize,  why  allow  himself  to  be  riven  and  tormented  by 
longings  and  fears  that  seemed  born  out  of  something  eternal? 
Perhaps,  indeed,  there  was  nothing  at  all  after  this  short  life 
was  ended,  nothing  but  the  blank  grayness  of  eternal  uncon- 
sciousness. If  so,  how  little  even  his  love  for  Rosamund  meant. 
It  must  be  just  some  bodily  attraction,  some  imperious  call  to 
his  flesh  which  he  had  mistaken  for  a  far  greater  thing.  Men, 
perhaps,  are  merely  tricked  by  those  longings  of  theirs  which 
seem  defiant  of  time,  by  those  passionate  tendernesses  in  which 
eternity  seems  breathing.  All  that  they  think  they  live  by  may 
be  illusion. 

Mechanically,  as  the  minutes  drew  on  towards  noon,  he 
walked  towards  the  Tekkeh  of  the  Dervishes.  Once  he  had 
come  here  to  meet  Cynthia  Clarke,  and  now  he  had  deliberately 
chosen  the  same  place  for  the  terrible  interview  with  his  wife.  It 
could  only  be  terrible.  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  going 
to  do  and  say  when  she  came  (if  she  did  come),  but  he  did 
know  that  somehow  he  would  tell  her  the  whole  truth  about 
himself,  without,  of  course,  mentioning  the  name  of  a  woman. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  575 

He  would  lay  bare  his  soul.  It  was  fitting  that  he  should  con- 
fess his  sin  in  the  place  of  its  beginnings.  He  had  begun  to 
sin  against  the  woman  whom  he  could  never  unlove  here  in 
this  wilderness  of  the  dead,  when  he  had  spoken  against  her  to 
the  woman  who  had  long  ago  resolved  some  day  to  make  him 
sin.  (He  told  himself  now  that  he  had  definitely  spoken 
against  Rosamund.)  In  this  sad  place  of  disordered  peace, 
under  the  gray,  and  within  sight  of  the  minarets  lifted  to  the 
Unknown  God,  he  had  opened  the  book  of  evil  things;  in  this 
place  he  would  close  it  forever  —  if  Rosamund  came.  He  felt 
now  that  there  was  something  within  him  which,  despite  all  his 
perversity,  all  that  he  had  given  himself  to  in  the  fury  of  the 
flesh,  was  irrevocably  dedicated  to  that  which  was  sane,  clean 
and  healthy.  By  this  he  was  resolved  to  live  henceforth,  not 
because  of  any  religious  feeling,  not  because  of  any  love  of 
that  Unknown  God  who  —  so  he  supposed  —  had  flung  him  into 
the  furnace  of  suffering  as  refuse  may  be  flung  into  a  fire,  but 
because  he  now  began  to  understand  that  this  dedicated  some- 
thing was  really  Him,  was  of  the  core  of  his  being,  not  to  be 
rooted  out.  He  had  left  Cynthia  Clarke.  In  a  short  time  — 
before  the  gray  faded  over  the  minarets  of  Stamboul  —  Rosa- 
mund would  have  done  with  him  forever.  He  faced  complete 
solitude,  the  wilderness  without  any  human  soul,  good  or  bad, 
to  keep  him  company;  but  he  faced  it  with  a  sort  of  hard  and 
final  resignation.  By  nightfall  he  would  have  done  with  it  all. 
And  then  —  the  living  Death  ?  Yes,  no  doubt  that  would  be 
his  portion.  He  smiled  faintly  as  he  thought  of  his  furious 
struggle  against  just  that. 

"  It  was  written,"  he  thought.  "  Everything  is  written. 
But  we  are  tricked  into  a  semblance  of  vigorous  life  and  energy 
by  our  great  delusion  that  we  possess  free  will." 

He  sat  down  beneath  a  cypress  and  remained  quite  still, 
looking  downward  towards  the  water,  downward  along  the  path 
by  which,  if  Rosamund  came,  she  would  ascend  the  hill 
towards  him. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  he  saw  below  him  on  this  path  the 
figure  of  a  woman  walking  slowly.  She  was  followed  by  a  man. 

Dion  got  up.  He  could  not  really  see  who  this  woman  was, 
but  he  knew  who  she  was.  Instantly  he  knew.  And  instantly 
all  the  calm,  all  the  fatalism  of  which  for  a  moment  he  had 
believed  himself  possessed,  all  the  brooding  resignation  of  the 
man  who  says  to  his  soul,  "  It  is  written!  "  was  swept  away. 
He  stood  there,  bare  of  his  pretenses,  and  he  knew  himself  for 


576  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

what  he  was,  just  a  man  who  was  the  prisoner  of  a  great 
love,  a  man  shaken  by  the  tempest  of  his  feeling,  a  man  who 
would,  who  must,  fight  against  that  living  Death  which,  only 
a  moment  before,  he  had  been  contemplating  even  with  a  smile. 

She  had  come,  and  with  her  life. 

He  put  one  arm  against  the  seamed  trunk  of  the  cypress. 
Mechanically,  and  unaware  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  taken 
off  his  hat.  He  held  it  in  his  hand.  All  the  change  which 
sorrow  and  excess  had  wrought  upon  him  was  exposed  for  Rosa- 
mund to  see.  She  had  last  seen  him  plainly  as  he  drove  away 
with  little  Robin  from  the  Green  Court  of  Welsley  on  that  morn- 
ing of  fate.  Now  at  last  she  was  to  see  him  again  as  she  had 
remade  him. 

She  came  on  slowly.  Presently  she  turned  to  her  Greek 
dragoman. 

"  Where's  the  Tekkeh?     Is  it  much  farther?  " 

"  No,  Madame." 

He  pointed.  As  he  did  so  Rosamund  saw  Dion's  figure 
standing  against  the  cypress.  She  stood  still.  Her  face  was 
white  and  drawn,  but  full  of  an  almost  flaming  resolution.  The 
mysticism  which  at  moments  Dion  had  detected  in  her  ex- 
pression, in  her  eyes,  during  the  years  passed  with  her,  a 
mysticism  then  almost  evasive,  subtly  withdrawn,  shone  now, 
like  a  dominating  quality  which  scorned  to  hide  itself,  or  per- 
haps could  not  hide  itself.  She  looked  like  a  woman  under  the 
influence  of  a  fixed  purpose,  fascinated,  drawn  onward,  almost 
in  ecstasy,  and  yet  somehow,  somewhere,  tormented. 

"  Please  go  back  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,"  she  said  to  the 
Greek  who  was  with  her. 

"  But,  Madame,  I  dare  not  leave  you  alone  here." 

"  I  shall  not  be  alone." 

The  Greek  looked  surprised. 

"  Some  one  is  waiting  for  me,  up  there,  by  that  cypress  — 
a  —  a  friend." 

"  Oh  —  I  see,  Madame." 

With    a   look   of    intense   comprehension   he  turned  to   go. 

"  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  please!  "  said  Rosamund. 

"  Certainly,  Madame." 

The  dragoman  was  smiling  as  he  walked  away.  Rosamund 
stood  still  watching  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight.  Then  she 
turned.  The  figure  of  a  man  was  still  standing  motionless 
under  the  old  cypress  tree  among  the  graves.  She  set  her  lips 
together  and  went  towards  it.  Now  that  she  saw  Dion,  even 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  577 

though  he  was  in  the  distance,  she  felt  again  intensely,  as  if  in 
her  flesh,  the  bodily  wrong  he  had  done  to  her.  She  strove  not 
to  feel  this.  She  told  herself  that,  after  her  sin  against  him, 
she  had  no  right  to  feel  it.  In  her  heart  she  knew  that  she  was 
the  greater  sinner.  She  realized  now  exactly  the  meaning  of 
what  she  had  done.  She  had  no  more  illusions  about  herself, 
about  her  conduct.  She  condemned  herself  utterly.  She  had 
come  to  that  place  of  the  dead  absolutely  resolved  to  ask  for- 
giveness of  Dion.  And  yet  now  that  she  saw  his  body  the 
sense  of  personal  outrage  woke  in  her,  gripped  her.  She  grew 
hot,  she  tingled.  A  fierce  jealousy  of  the  flesh  tormented  her. 
And  suddenly  she  was  afraid  of  herself.  Was  her  body  then 
more  powerful  than  her  soul  ?  Was  she,  who  had  always  cared 
for  the  things  of  the  soul  hopelessly  physical?  It  seemed  to 
her  that  even  now  she  might  succumb  to  what  she  supposed  was 
an  overwhelming  personal  pride,  that  even  now  she  might  be 
unable  to  do  what  she  had  come  all  the  long  way  from  England 
to  do.  But  she  forced  herself  to  go  onward  up  the  path.  She 
looked  down;  she  would  not  see  that  body  of  a  man  which  had 
belonged  to  her  and  to  which  she  had  belonged;  but  she  made 
herself  go  towards  it. 

Presently  she  felt  that  she  was  drawing  near  to  it;  then 
that  she  was  close  to  it.  Then  she  stopped.  Standing  still  for 
a  moment  she  prayed.  She  prayed  that  she  might  be  able  in 
this  supreme  crisis  of  her  life  to  govern  the  baser  part  of  her- 
self, that  she  might  be  allowed,  might  be  helped,  to  rise  to 
those  heights  of  which  Father  Robertson  had  spoken  to  her, 
that  she  might  at  last  realize  the  finest  possibilities  of  her 
nature,  that  she  might  be  able  to  do  the  most  difficult  thing, 
to  be  humble,  to  forget  any  injury  which  had  been  inflicted 
upon  herself,  and  to  remember  only  the  tremendous  injury  she 
had  inflicted  upon  another.  When  her  prayer  was  finished 
she  did  not  know  whether  it  had  been  heard,  whether,  if  it  had 
been  heard,  it  had  been  accepted  and  would  be  granted.  She 
did  not  know  at  all  what  she  would  be  able  to  do.  But  she 
looked  up  and  saw  Dion.  He  was  close  to  her,  was  standing 
just  in  front  of  her,  with  one  arm  holding  the  cypress  trunk, 
trembling  slightly  and  gazing  at  her,  gazing  at  her  with  eyes 
that  were  terrible  because  they  revealed  so  much  of  agony,  of 
love  and  of  terror.  She  looked  into  those  eyes,  she  looked  at 
the  frightful  change  written  on  the  face  that  had  once  been 
so  familiar  to  her,  and  suddenly  an  immense  pity  inundated 
her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  endured  in  that  moment  all  the 


578  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

suffering  which  Dion  had  endured  since  the  tragedy  at  Welsley 
added  to  her  own  suffering.  She  stood  there  for  a  moment 
looking  at  him.  Then  she  said  only: 

"  Forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me!  " 

Tears  rushed  into  her  eyes.  She  had  been  able  to  say  it.  It 
had  not  been  difficult  to  say.  She  could  not  have  said  anything 
else.  And  her  soul  had  said  it  as  well  as  her  lips. 

"Forgive  me!     Forgive  me!"  she  repeated. 

She  went  up  to  Dion,  took  his  poor  tortured  temples,  from 
which  the  hair,  once  so  thick,  had  retreated,  in  her  hands,  and 
whispered  again  in  the  midst  of  her  tears: 

"  Forgive  me!  " 

"  I've  been  false  to  you,"  he  said  huskily.  "  I've  broken 
my  vow  to  you.  I've  lived  with  another  woman  —  for  months. 
I've  been  a  beast.  I've  wallowed.  I've  gone  right  down. 
Everything  horrible  —  I've  —  I've  done  it.  Only  last  night 
I  meant  to  —  to  —  I  only  broke  away  from  it  all  last  night.  I 
heard  you  were  here  and  then  I  —  I " 

"  Forgive  me." 

She  felt  as  if  God  were  speaking  in  her,  through  her.  She 
felt  as  if  in  that  moment  God  had  taken  complete  possession 
of  her,  as  if  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  just  an  instru- 
ment, formed  for  the  carrying  out  of  His  tremendous  purposes, 
able -to  carry  them  out.  Awe  was  upon  her.  But  she  felt  a 
strange  joy,  and  even  a  wonderful  sense  of  peace. 

"  But  you  don't  hear  what  I  tell  you.  I  have  been  false 
to  you.  I  have  sinned  against  you  for  months  and  months." 

"Hush!     It  was  my  sin." 

"  Yours?     Oh,  Rosamund!  " 

She  was  still  holding  his  temples.  He  put  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders. 

"  Yes,  it  was  my  sin.  I  understand  now  how  you  love  me. 
I  never  understood  till  to-day." 

"  Yes,  I  love  you." 

"  Then,"  she  said,  very  simply.  "  I  know  you  will  be  able 
to  forgive  me.  Don't  tell  me  any  more  ever  about  what  you 
have  done.  It's  blotted  out.  Just  forgive  me  —  and  let  us 
begin  again." 

She  took  away  her  hands  from  his  temples.  He  did  not  kiss 
her,  but  he  took  one  of  her  hands,  and  they  stood  side  by  side 
looking  towards  Stamboul,  towards  the  City  of  the  Unknown 
God.  His  eyes  and  hers  were  on  the  minarets,  those  minarets 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  579 

which  seem  to  say  to  those  who  have  come  to  them  from  afar, 
and  whose  souls  are  restless: 

"  In  the  East  thou  shalt  find  me  if  thou  hast  not  found  me 
in  the  West." 

After  a  long  silence  Rosamund  pressed  Dion's  hand,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  never,  in  the  former  days  of  their  union 
—  not  even  in  Greece  —  had  she  pressed  it  with  such  tender- 
ness, with  such  pulse-stirring  intimacy  and  trust  in  him. 
Then,  still  with  her  eyes  upon  the  minarets,  she  said  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  I  think  Robin  knows." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NOT  many  days  later,  when  the  green  valley  of  Olympia 
was  wrapped  in  the  peace  of  a  sunlit  afternoon,  and 
a  faint  breeze  drew  from  the  pine  trees  on  the  hills  of 
Kronos  a  murmur  as  of  distant  voices  whispering  the  message 
of  Eternity,  the  keeper  of  the  house  of  the  Hermes  was  dis- 
turbed in  a  profound  reverie  by  the  sound  of  slow  footfalls  not 
far  from  his  dwelling.  He  stirred,  lifted  his  head  and  stared 
vaguely  about  him.  No  travelers  had  come  of  late  to  the  shrine 
he  guarded.  Hermes  had  been  alone  with  the  child  upon  his 
arm,  dreaming  of  its  unclouded  future  with  the  serenity  of  one 
who  had  trodden  the  paths  where  the  gods  walk,  and  who 
could  rise  at  will  above  the  shadowed  ways  along  which  men 
creep  in  anxiety,  dreading  false  steps  and  the  lurking  dangers  of 
their  fates.  Hermes  had  been  alone  with  his  happy  burden, 
forgotten  surely  by  the  world  which  his  delicate  majesty  ig- 
nored without  disdain.  But  now  pilgrims,  perhaps  from  a 
distant  land,  were  drawing  near  to  look  upon  him,  to  spend 
a  little  while  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  shining  calm,  perhaps  to 
learn  something  of  the  message  he  had  to  give  to  those  who  were 
capable  of  receiving  it. 

A  man  and  a  woman,  moving  slowly  side  by  side,  came  into 
the  patch  of  strong  sunshine  which  made  a  glory  before  the 
house,  paused  there  and  stood  still. 

From  the  shadow  in  which  he  was  sitting  the  guardian 
examined  them  with  the  keen  eyes  of  one  who  had  looked 


580  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

upon  travelers  of  many  nations.  He  knew  at  once  that  the 
woman  was  English.  As  for  the  man  —  yes,  probably  he  was 
English  too.  Dark,  lean,  wrinkled,  he  was  no  doubt  an  Eng- 
lishman who  had  been  much  away  from  his  own  country,  which 
the  guardian  conceived  of  as  wrapped  in  perpetual  fogs  and 
washed  by  everlasting  rains. 

The  guardian  stared  hard  at  this  man,  then  turned  his 
bright  eyes  again  upon  the  woman.  As  he  looked  at  her  some 
recollection  began  to  stir  in  his  mind. 

Not  many  travelers  came  twice  to  the  green  recesses  of  Elis. 
He  was  accustomed  to  brief  acquaintanceships,  closed  by  small 
gifts  of  money,  and  succeeded  by  farewells  which  troubled  his 
spirit  not  at  all.  But  this  woman  seemed  familiar  to  him; 
and  even  the  man 

He  got  up  from  his  seat  and  went  towards  them. 

As  he  came  into  the  sunlight  the  woman  saw  him  and 
smiled.  And,  when  she  smiled,  he  knew  he  had  seen  her 
before.  The  deep  gravity  of  her  face  as  she  approached  had 
nearly  tricked  his  memory,  but  now  he  remembered  all  about 
her.  She  was  the  beautiful  fair  Englishwoman  who  had 
camped  on  the  hill  of  Drouva  not  so  many  years  ago,  who  had 
gone  out  shooting  with  that  young  rascal,  Dirmikis,  and  who 
had  spent  solitary  hours  wrapt  in  contemplation  of  the  statue 
whose  fame  doubtless  had  brought  her  to  Elis. 

Not  so  many  years  ago!  But  was  this  man  the  husband 
who  had  been  with  her  then,  and  who  had  evidently  been  deeply 
in  love  with  her? 

It  seemed  to  the  guardian  that  there  was  some  puzzling 

change  in  the  beautiful  woman.  As  to  the  man Still 

wondering,  the  guardian  took  off  his  cap  politely  and  uttered 
a  smiling  welcome  in  Greek.  Then  the  man  smiled  too,  faintly, 
and  still  preserving  an  under-look  of  deep  gravity,  and  the 
guardian  knew  him.  It  was  indeed  the  husband,  but  grown  to 
look  very  much  older,  and  different  in  some  almost  mysterious 
way. 

The  woman  made  a  gesture  towards  the  museum.  The 
guardian  bowed,  turned  and  moved  to  lead  the  way  through 
the  vestibule  into  the  great  room  of  the  Vicicry.  But  the  woman 
spoke  behind  him  and  he  paused.  He  did  not  understand 
what  she  said,  but  the  sound  of  her  voice  seemed  to  plead  with 
him  —  or  to  command  him.  He  looked  at  her  and  understood. 

She  was  gazing  at  him  steadily,  and  her  eyes  told  him  not 
to  go  before  her,  told  him  to  stay  where  he  was. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  581 

He  nodded  his  head,  slightly  pursing  his  small  mouth.  She 
knew  the  way  of  course.  How  should  she  not  know  it  ? 

Gently  she  came  up  to  him  and  just  touched  his  coat  sleeve 
—  to  thank  him.  Then  she  went  on  slowly  with  her  compan- 
ion, traversed  the  room  of  the  Victory,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  smaller  chamber  beyond  it 
and  disappeared. 

For  a  moment  the  guardian  stood  at  gaze.  Then  he  went 
back  to  his  seat,  sat  down  and  sighed.  A  faint  sense  of  awe 
had  come  upon  him.  He  did  not  understand  it,  and  he  sighed 
again.  Then,  pulling  himself  together,  he  felt  for  a  cigarette, 
vlit  it  and  began  to  smoke,  staring  at  the  patch  of  sunlight  out- 
side, and  at  the  olive  tree  which  grew  close  to  the  doorway. 


Within  the  chamber  of  the  Hermes  for  a  long  time  there 
was  silence.  Rosamund  was  sitting  before  the  statue.  Dion 
stood  near  to  her,  but  not  close  to  her.  The  eyes  of  both  of 
them  were  fixed  upon  Hermes  and  the  child.  Once  again  they 
were  greeted  by  the  strange  and  exquisite  hush  which  seems, 
like  a  divine  sentinel,  to  wait  at  the  threshold  of  that  shrine  in 
Elis;  once  again  the  silence  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  marble 
and  to  press  softly  against  their  two  hearts.  But  they  were 
changed,  and  so  the  great  peace  of  the  Hermes  seemed  to  them 
subtly  changed.  They  knew  now  the  full  meaning  of  torment 
—  torment  of  the  body  and  of  the  soul.  They  knew  the  black- 
ness of  rebellion.  But  they  knew  also,  or  at  least  were  begin- 
ning to  know,  the  true  essence  of  peace.  And  this  beginning  of 
knowledge  drew  them  nearer  to  the  Hermes  than  they  had  been 
in  the  bygone  years,  than  they  had  ever  been  before  the  coming 
of  little  Robin  into  their  lives,  and  before  Robin  had  left  them, 
obedient  to  the  call  from  the  beyond. 

The  olive  branch  was  gone  from  the  doorway.  Something 
beautiful  was  missing  from  the  picture  of  Elis  which  had  re- 
minded Rosamund  of  the  glimpse  of  distant  country  in 
Raphael's  "  Marriage  of  the  Virgin."  And  they  longed  to  have 
it  there,  that  little  olive  branch  —  ah,  how  they  longed !  There 
was  pain  in  their  hearts.  But  there  was  no  longer  the  cruel 
fierceness  of  rebellion.  They  were  able  to  gaze  at  the  child  on 
whom  Hermes  was  gazing,  if  not  with  his  celestial  serenity  yet 
with  a  resignation  that  was  even  subtly  mingled  with  something 
akin  to  gratitude. 

"  Shall  we  reach  that  goal  and  take  a  child  with  us  ?  " 


582  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Long  ago  that  had  been  Dion's  thought  in  Elis.  And  long 
ago  Rosamund  had  broken  the  silence  within  that  room  by  the 
words : 

"  I'm  trying  to  learn  something  here,  how  to  bring  him  up 
if  he  ever  comes." 

And  now  God  had  given  them  a  child,  and  God  had  taken 
him  from  them.  Robin  had  gone  from  all  that  was  not  in- 
tended, but  that,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  had  come  to  be. 
Robin  was  in  the  released  world. 

As  the  twilight  began  to  fall  another  twilight  came  back  flood- 
ing with  its  green  dimness  the  memories  of  them  both.  And  at 
last  Rosamund  spoke. 

"Dion!" 

"  Yes." 

"  Come  a  little  nearer  to  me." 

He  came  close  to  her  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Do  you  remember  something  you  said  to  me  here?  It  was 
in  the  twilight " 

She  paused.  Tears  had  come  into  her  eyes  and  her  voice 
had  trembled. 

"  It  was  in  the  twilight.  You  said  that  it  seemed  to  you  as 
if  Hermes  were  taking  the  child  away,  partly  because  of  us." 

Her  voice  broke. 

"I  —  I  disliked  your  saying  that.  I  told  you  I  couldn't  feel 
that." 

"  I  remember." 

"  And  then  you  explained  exactly  what  you  meant.  And  we 
spoke  of  the  human  fear  that  comes  to  those  who  look  at  a 
child  they  love  and  think,  '  what  is  life  going  to  do  to  the 
child?  '  This  evening  I  want  to  tell  you  that  in  a  strange  way 
I  am  able  to  be  glad  that  Robin  has  gone,  glad  with  some  part 
of  me  that  is  more  mother  than  anything  else  in  me,  I  think. 
Robin  is  —  is  so  safe  now." 

The  tears  came  thickly  and  fell  upon  her  face.  She  put  out 
a  hand  to  Dion.  He  clasped  it  closely. 

"  God  took  him  away,  and  perhaps  because  of  us.  I  think 
it  may  have  been  to  teach  us,  you  and  me.  Perhaps  we  needed 
a  great  sorrow.  Perhaps  nothing  else  could  have  taught  us 
something  we  had  to  learn." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  he  almost  whispered. 

She  got  up  and  leaned  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Whatever  happens  to  me  in  the  future,"  she  said,  "  I  don't 
think  I  shall  ever  distrust  God  again." 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD  583 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and,  for  the  first  time  since  their 
reunion,  he  kissed  her,  and  she  returned  his  kiss. 

Over  Elis  the  twilight  was  falling,  a  green  twilight,  sylvan 
and  very  ethereal,  tremulous  in  its  delicate  beauty.  It  stole 
through  the  green  doors,  and  down  through  the  murmuring  pine 
trees.  The  sheep-bells  were  ringing  softly;  the  flocks  were  go- 
ing homeward  from  pasture;  and  the  chime  of  their  little  bells 
mingled  with  the  wide  whispering  of  the  eternities  among  the 
summits  of  the  pine  trees.  Music  of  earth  mingled  with  the 
music  from  a  distance  that  knew  what  the  twilight  knew. 

Presently  the  two  marble  figures  in  the  chamber  of  the  Hermes 
began  to  fade  away  gradually,  as  if  deliberately  withdrawing 
themselves  from  the  gaze  of  men.  At  last  only  their  outlines 
were  visible  to  Rosamund  and  to  Dion.  But  even  these  told  of 
the  Golden  Age,  of  the  age  of  the  long  peace. 

"Xaipe!" 

Some  one  had  said  it  within  that  chamber,  and  a  second 
voice  had  echoed  it. 

As  the  guardian  of  the  Hermes  watched  the  two  pilgrims 
walking  slowly  away  down  the  valley  he  noticed  that  the  man's 
right  arm  clasped  the  woman's  waist.  And,  so,  they  passed 
from  his  sight  and  were  taken  by  the  green  twilight  of  Elis. 


TfLE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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